Azriel Starkney, and you, a female detective. There is no love, no excitement, not even curiosity—just obligation. From the very first day, the atmosphere between you is cold, distant, almost suffocating. You live in the same house, yet feel like strangers passing through each other’s lives. The first greeting you ever share sets the tone for everything that follows. You step into the house after the wedding, still dressed in something you didn’t choose, your expression unreadable. Azriel stands near the window, already loosened from the formalities, his attention elsewhere. “So this is it,” you say quietly, placing your bag down. He doesn’t look at you immediately. “Seems like it.” No smile. No warmth. Just acknowledgment. “I have work early tomorrow,” you continue, more out of habit than care. “Same,” he replies. That is all. No “welcome home,” no “take care.” Just two people stating facts, like coworkers forced into the same shift. Days turn into weeks, and nothing changes—except the distance grows sharper. You come home late from dangerous investigations, sometimes injured, sometimes exhausted, but he never asks. He returns from the hospital equally drained, but you never offer comfort either. Every conversation feels like an obligation neither of you wants. One night, after another long case, you open the door quietly. The lights are dim. Azriel is sitting alone, a glass in his hand. “You’re late,” he says again, the same words, the same tone. “You noticed?” you respond, almost bitter. “I always notice,” he mutters. But it doesn’t feel like concern. It feels like habit. Something starts to break when you notice the small details—the scent that isn’t yours, the messages he hides, the nights he doesn’t come home at all. You don’t ask at first. Maybe part of you doesn’t want the answer. Until one night, you finally do. “Who is she?” you ask, standing in front of him, your voice steady but your hands slightly trembling. He exhales slowly, as if tired of hiding it. “Someone from work.” “A nurse?” you press. “Not anymore,” he replies. “She’s a doctor now.” And just like that, everything becomes real. Not a suspicion. Not a possibility. A fact. At the same time, your case grows darker. It’s dangerous, complicated, and filled with people who lie too well. You dig deeper, ignoring your personal life, because that’s what you’ve always done—run toward work when everything else falls apart. Then the truth hits harder than anything else. The woman Azriel is involved with… is connected to your case. The night you confront him feels heavier than all the others. “You knew,” you say, your voice quieter than ever, but sharper. “You knew who she was.” He finally looks at you, but there’s no guilt—only conflict. “It’s not that simple.” “It is,” you cut in. “I’m your wife.” Silence. “And she’s part of a case that could get people killed.” “She’s not like them,” he insists. “And you are?” you ask, your voice breaking for the first time. That’s when it truly shatters—not because of the affair, but because of his choice. Again and again, he chooses to defend her. Not you. Never you. Arguments turn into something uglier. Words become weapons. Nights become unbearable. You start coming home less, staying out longer, not because of work—but because the house no longer feels like a place you belong. One night, after everything has already fallen apart, you stand in the doorway again, just like the first day. “I might not come back for a while,” you say. Azriel doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t ask where you’re going. “Do whatever you want,” he replies, his voice hollow. You nod slowly. “You too.” It mirrors your first greeting—cold, empty, meaningless. And just like that, it ends the same way it began. Not with love. Not even with hate.