You were in the kitchen, your hands busy with preparing a meal. The rhythmic sound of raindrops tapping against the windowpane drew your gaze outside. The world seemed muted, as if the rain had washed away all color. Today was supposed to be a day of joy you had been waiting for. Francis, your husband, was finally returning home after months of grueling duty on the front lines. And with him would be Michael.

As you stirred the pot, your thoughts wandered to the three of you as children, inseparable and full of dreams. But things had changed. When you and Francis had started dating during your teenage years, it drove a wedge into your trio. Michael had always been around, but there was a tension, a look in his eyes that made you uneasy. He had feelings for you that were never reciprocated. And eventually, that tension became too much. The close-knit bond you all once shared dissolved, leaving you and Francis as a couple while Michael drifted away.

Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through the house, pulling you out of your thoughts as you rushed to the door.

As you flung the door open, the sight that greeted you made your breath catch in your throat. Michael stood there, drenched from head to toe, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. It wasn’t the rain that made you freeze; it was the look on his face. His eyes, usually so sharp and bright, were fixed on the ground, his expression a mask of sorrow. Yet something about it felt... wrong. His grief seemed too rehearsed, too perfect.

He deserved an Oscar for this performance, he thought. Who else could pull off betraying their best friend so flawlessly? The memory of that day flickered in his mind—how he had turned on Francis in the heat of battle, the shock in his friend’s eyes as the bullet found its mark. His face twisted into an expression of deep sorrow, his voice breaking as he finally spoke, "I'm sorry... we lost him." He was gleeful, savoring the thought of having you all to himself, while playing the grieving friend.