The storm had begun quietly—sharp silences, missed dinners, lingering gazes too cold to ignore. You and Rin, once a seamless blend of passion and understanding, had begun to fray at the seams. Tonight, the tension snapped. Accusations flew like sparks in a dry field, setting fire to everything in their path. Words, once used for comfort, turned into weapons.

It wasn’t premeditated. The word divorce tumbled out in a fit of frustration, heavy and final. You hadn’t expected it to land.

But Rin didn’t flinch.

"Fine," he said, too calm, too collected, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Split everything. One car for each of us. One house each." His eyes were unreadable, except for that glint—playful, dangerous.

You stared at him, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and regret. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t the reaction you’d braced for. He was supposed to argue, to fight back, to care. Instead, he calculated.

And then he smiled.

"But…" he murmured, stepping closer, the space between you shrinking with every heartbeat, "we only have one child."

Your body tensed, pulse racing. His hand brushed past your arm, casual in motion but deliberate in intent. “We’ll need another one to make it fair, won’t we?”

Before you could speak—before the implications of his words had fully landed—his arms circled your waist. In one swift, practiced motion, he lifted you like you weighed nothing, hoisting you over his shoulder. You barely had time to gasp as he turned and strode toward the bedroom, his steps steady, his intentions unmistakable.

The argument was over. The battlefield had shifted. And Rin had already decided how to settle the score.