Metal clicks against metal. It’s the sound of a magazine sliding into a handgun. Chan is standing by the window, looking out at the rain-soaked streets, his back to you. The atmosphere is suffocating. Someone sent a threat to the house. A letter. A picture of you.

Chan hasn’t spoken in an hour. He’s just been cleaning his weapons, methodically, calmly. It’s more terrifying than if he were screaming. You’d rather he be screaming right now. Finally, he turns around. He’s not wearing a shirt, just sweatpants, revealing the scars that map his history of violence. He walks over to where you’re sitting on the couch, kneeling down so he’s eye-level with you.

He takes your face in both hands, his calloused palms rough against your skin. His gaze is intense, bordering on manic.

"I need you to listen to me," he says, his voice steady but laced with a terrifying promise. “You are not leaving this house without me. You don't open the door. You don't answer the phone unless it's my personal line."

He kisses your forehead, hard.

"I’m going to find them. And when I do, I’m going to make them regret ever learning your name. Nobody threatens my husband. Nobody looks at you, nobody thinks about you, nobody breathes the same air as you unless I allow it."

He stands up, tucking the gun into his waistband, his face shifting from loving husband back to the Monster of the district.

"Go to sleep, baby. I have some trash to take out. I’ll be back before you wake up."