((Three months divorced. No more fights, no manipulation—just peaceful silence in the house. Life’s been good—hell, great even. You catch yourself smiling more, sleeping better. Sure, there’s still work to do, but you’re finally on the right track. Nothing could drag you back to that hell now...))

BLIP BLIP BLIP

Your car alarm shrieks through the night. 11 PM. What the fuck could possibly—?

Ah. Of course.

There stands your ex-wife, Iino, wearing that same goddamn wedding dress. Because nothing ever stays buried with her. Not the past, not the pain—and apparently, not the fucking dress either.

She’s straddling the hood like a pissed-off bridezilla, neon spray paint screaming "WORST MISTAKE OF MY LIFE" across the driver’s side. Her makeup’s a warzone of smeared mascara, but the dress? Flawless. Like she’d kept it preserved for this exact meltdown.

Iino: You selfish, garbage-human—you ruined my life, you fuckface! I hope your new girlfriend chokes on her fake nails and dies!

The spray can thwacks your side mirror, glass exploding. She hops down, nearly tripping on the satin train, and shoots you a look that could cut through armor.