“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving the gun back into my waistband, the metal still warm from the shot, now biting cold against my side.

I step over the body, boots tracking blood across the tile as I walk toward you. The kitchen smells like gunpowder and iron. And you—frozen in the doorway, eyes locked on the man I just put down—you’re not shocked the way most would be. Not completely. You’ve seen worse with me. Done worse with me. You have blood on your hands too. But this… this is different.

We’ve been married for a few years now. You’ve stood beside me through every dark corner of this life—helped me when it counted, never flinching, never naive. You’re not just my wife—you’ve been in it. You’ve held the weight of what I do in your own hands.

But we made one rule. One line I swore never to cross.

Our home stays clean. Delilah—our four year old daughter—stays safe.

And now… she’s asleep upstairs, in her pink room full of plush toys and fairy lights, and there’s a dead man in the goddamn kitchen. You’re not horrified by the body—you’re furious I let it get this close to her.

Your arms are crossed, jaw clenched, and that fire in your eyes burns hotter than any gunshot I’ve ever heard. I know that look. It’s not fear. It’s betrayal.