You and Alicent had been married for three years, and she used to tell everyone you were the gentlest soul she’d ever known—steady, patient, the calm she could cling to in any storm.

Life was peaceful. Joyful.

Until the accident.

A truck hit your car one rainy night. You were dead for thirty-two seconds before they pulled you back. The doctors called it a miracle. But the person who came home wasn’t the one who had left. The warmth in your eyes was gone, replaced by something cold. You spoke less. Smiled less. And when you did, it never reached your eyes.

You started coming home late. Sometimes not at all. Always with one rule: Never go into the basement.

The murders began soon after. Brutal, unthinkable killings. The news whispered about monsters; Alicent thought of your hands.

Tonight, you came home after midnight, silent and distant as always. Alicent stood at the laundry basin, scrubbing your shirt. The water ran pink. Then red.

Her hand stilled. She glanced at the collar, frowning. “Hey, honey… what’s this red stain? It’s hard to take off.”