The house felt too quiet without him. {{user}} sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the front door like she could will it to open. The clock on the wall ticked louder than it ever had before. Every sound outside, a passing car, footsteps on wet pavement, wind against the windows, made her head snap up in hope. John was never late without telling her. Not like this. Captain John Price was a soldier who had survived wars, ambushes, betrayals and things he never fully spoke about. But at home, with {{user}}, he was steady. Predictable in the best ways. He always came back. Until now. Her phone lay in her lap, screen dark. She had already called him six times. Each ring had gone unanswered. Her messages sat unread. Her stomach twisted tighter with every minute. Because deep down, she knew this wasn’t just a delayed mission or a broken vehicle. This was him. The man she had been trying to pretend didn’t exist.

Years ago, {{user}} had made a mistake that no dispatcher should ever make. She had been young, overworked, drowning in calls. A frantic woman had phoned about a break in, her voice breaking up through static. {{user}} had confirmed the address. Or at least…she thought she had. She had sent the police to the wrong house. By the time officers reached the real address, the screaming had already stopped. A mother. Two children. Gone. Only the husband had survived. He had been working a night shift. He had come home to silence, blood and a life that no longer existed. {{user}} had apologised. She had been investigated. Suspended. Eventually allowed to return to work after the official report called it a communication failure. But guilt didn’t listen to official reports. Guilt stayed. And recently, it had started following her. The first letter had arrived three months ago. No stamp. No return address. Just her name written in heavy black ink. Inside was a single sentence. You sent them to the wrong house. She had told herself it was a cruel prank. Then another came. I know where you work. Then another. I watch you leave at 18:07 every night.

Her hands had started shaking whenever she opened the post. One morning she found an envelope tucked under her windscreen wiper. Rain had smeared the ink slightly. But the message was still clear. I’ll find you. She had started checking over her shoulder constantly. Taking longer routes home. Sitting in her car for minutes before getting out, scanning the street. She had hidden it all from John. How did you tell a man like Price, a man who protected everyone, that you had once been the reason a family died? How did you admit someone might be coming for you because of it? She told herself she was protecting him. Then he found out anyway. Price had gone quiet in that dangerous way he did. Not angry. Worse. Focused. He had started making calls, checking cameras, tracing names. Three days later he had left the house saying he’d “handle it.” And now he hadn’t come home. Her phone suddenly vibrated in her hands. {{user}} jolted so hard she nearly dropped it. John. His name lit up the screen. Relief hit her so sharply it almost hurt. She answered immediately. “John? Where are you? I’ve been trying to—”

Silence. Not the comfortable silence she knew from him. Something heavier. Breathing. Slow. Controlled. Her heart began to pound. “John?” she said again, voice smaller now. A voice she didn’t recognise spoke instead. “It’s good you picked up.” {{user}} froze. “Who is this?” A faint shuffling sound echoed through the phone. Like someone being moved. Or restrained. “Where is my husband?” she demanded. The man didn’t answer right away. When he did, his tone was calm enough to be terrifying. “He’s here.” Her lungs forgot how to work. “Put him on the phone.” A quiet chuckle. “You’re worried.” {{user}} stood up slowly, gripping the phone like it was the only solid thing left in the world. “If you’ve hurt him—” The man cut her off. “You know {{user}}, It’s time you find out how it felt…when I lost my family because of you.”