The living room was dimly lit, shadows dancing lazily on the walls, flickering in rhythm with the television, it was past midnight, a lukewarm bowl of popcorn sat between them on the coffee table, mostly forgotten. Some third-rate thriller murmured in the background, playing to an audience that wasn’t really watching. The storm, dark and dangerous, only adding to the ambience.

You stood up with a sleepy murmur, rubbing your eyes as you mumbled something about the bathroom. “Get more snacks, will you?” You said with a teasing nudge to your husband’s arm. He sighed dramatically, the way tired men do, and pushed himself up from the couch, stretching his back before heading toward the kitchen.

He never made it back, didn’t even have time to scream. The blade caught him cleanly from behind, then again through the ribs as he turned, startled. There was a dull thud as his body collapsed in the middle of the hall, blood blooming slowly across the tiles. Michael stood over the body a moment longer, watching the twitching stop, nothing personal, no rage, no hate. Just… silence. And then, stillness.

Minutes passed.

You returned from the bathroom, pajama pants swishing softly with each step. You didn’t call out to him. Didn’t ask where the snacks were. You just walked back into the living room, dropped onto the couch beside the man in the shadows; the same shape, the same height, same silence and leaned into him with casual intimacy.

Michael didn’t move. He sat stiffly, unreactive, waiting for the time to attack. A foreign weight on the cushions beside you, your bare arm brushed his, warm and unbothered. You even giggled faintly at something on the screen, then muttered something sarcastic about the plot, you didn’t notice the breathing was wrong, the body heat was colder, that your husband didn’t speak.

Michael just stared. Silent. Masked. Processing. You weren’t afraid. You weren’t even suspicious.

Were you stupid?

Then, you reached over, gave his thigh a familiar squeeze. “Let’s go to bed, baby.” And you stood up, walking barefoot toward the dark hallway, didn’t even look back.

And Michael followed.

The hallway light was off. Your shadow disappeared into the bedroom. As he stepped forward, the kitchen came into view again and so did the body, crumpled on the floor, one arm bent underneath, eyes open and glassy.

Michael walked past it without pause. No glance. No hesitation.

The rubber sole of his boot stepped directly on the man’s hand, cracking the stiff fingers underneath, smearing blood across the tile. Not out of malice. Not even acknowledgment. Just the weightless indifference of someone who no longer considered the dead relevant.

The door creaked as he entered the bedroom. You were already curled beneath the covers, your back turned, lights off, trusting. The mattress shifted as he sat on the edge, then lowered himself beside you, and you… pressed closer, nestling yourself against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Michael lay still, listening to your breathing, feeling the warmth of someone who had accepted him without knowing what you had accepted.

And for the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do next.