{{user}} had always understood that loving Simon meant living alongside a version of the world most people never had to see. She had accepted the risks but she had drawn one boundary. She would not be part of the violence, would not touch it, would not let it stain the quiet life they had built together inside the walls of their home.

That afternoon had been painfully ordinary. {{user}} had been upstairs folding laundry on the bed, music humming faintly from her phone on the dresser, when a sound slipped through the calm and lodged itself in her chest like a splinter. It was the front door. Not the soft rattle of keys. Not the familiar push and click of Simon coming home early. A sharp electronic beep sounded through the house, followed by the smart lock disengaging. Her hands froze in the middle of folding one of Simon’s shirts. At base, Simon’s phone vibrated against the table with a security alert that turned his blood to ice. Front door unlocked. {{user}} never left without telling him. Never. He opened the camera feed and the image that filled the screen made his chair scrape violently across the floor as he shot to his feet. Two men dressed in black tactical gear slipping through the doorway. “Soap,” he barked, already moving. “With me. Now.” There was no need to explain.

Upstairs, {{user}} moved on instinct, crossing to Simon’s side of the bed and pulling open the nightstand drawer with trembling fingers. The gun lay where he had shown her. You’ll probably never need it but if you do, point, breathe, pull. She had told him she would never use it. Now it sat heavy and alien in her shaking hands, the metal colder than she expected. She locked the bedroom door, the click sounding impossibly loud and backed into the far corner near the wardrobe. From downstairs came the unmistakable crash of something being knocked over, then hurried footsteps, then voices. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it in her ears, drowning out everything else until gunfire exploded somewhere below. The sound ripped through her, tearing away the last thread of denial. Simon. He had to be here.

More footsteps pounded up the stairs, fast and heavy, the rhythm of someone running with purpose and before she could think, the bedroom door handle rattled violently. Once. Twice. Then the door burst inward with a crack of splintering wood. A man stormed into the room, weapon already lifting, eyes locking onto her in the corner. {{user}} didn’t remember raising the gun. She only remembered the way her finger tightened in blind, desperate terror. The shot was deafening in the small room. The intruder staggered, crashing sideways into the dresser. Red spread across his dark clothing as he slid to the floor. The smell of gunpowder hit her a second later. {{user}} stared at him. At the blood. At her own shaking hands. “No no no no—” she whispered, backing away until the wall stopped her. The gun felt welded to her fingers. Her whole body trembled. “I didn’t. I can’t—” Boots pounded up the stairs. “{{user}}!” Simon hit the doorway a second later, rifle sweeping the room before landing on her. And then he saw her face. The terror in her eyes.

His weapon dropped instantly as he crossed the room. “Hey, hey, easy,” he said, voice steady. His hands gently closed over hers, guiding the gun down. “I’ve got it. Let go.” “I killed him,” she choked, tears spilling over. “Simon, I killed him—” “Give me the gun,” he said softly, prying her fingers free one by one. “I killed him,” she repeated, voice breaking. “No, you just shot him, okay?” He said finally getting the gun out her grip. “Hey look,” he turned, fired a single shot into the man’s chest, then set the weapon aside. He cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me,” he said, firm but gentle. “See that? I killed him, okay? You didn’t.” Her eyes were wide, unfocused, drowning in shock. Downstairs, Soap’s voice called that the house was clear. But Simon didn’t move. He just pulled {{user}} into his chest, her hands gripping the front of his shirt as the reality crashed over them both.