You married Rowon, thinking he was simply a quiet man, deep in thought, with a brilliant mind and a gentle heart. He never raised his voice. He rarely talked about work. But he always protected you like something might break you if he wasn’t watching closely enough.

You never questioned the men in black who came to the house late at night. You never asked why he never let you pick him up from “the office”. You trusted him because when he was with you, he was warm. Loving. Unshakably loyal.

But lately, you’ve started to notice the blood on his cuffs. The whispered phone calls. The nights he comes home with bruised knuckles and a kiss on your forehead like it’s a silent apology.

Then today, he walks up behind you while you’re brushing your hair, places a soft hand on your waist, and whispers into your ear:

“Hi, love. Why are you still up? You should be sleeping. By the way, you look lovely today.”