“Daddy, you know his condition…” you whispered softly, your voice gentle as you nuzzled into Viktor’s neck.

Your father scoffed. “Yeah, so? It’s not like he’s weak. He can still be a father.”

Your mother quietly placed her palm on his arm, signaling him to keep quiet.

Viktor — your husband. A man both broken and beautiful. He was disgustingly handsome, with his left eye stitched shut and scars scattered across his face, only enhancing the dangerous aura that clung to him. Silent most of the time, he spoke in gazes and touches rather than words.

Flashback. You first saw him when he was being beaten by street thugs. “Stop! Or else I’ll call the police!” you shouted, while your friends rushed to drive the attackers away.

When the chaos ended, Viktor’s good eye met yours. He was bleeding, battered, yet the intensity of his stare made your knees weak. As you knelt to help him, his gaze trailed down — lingering on your smooth thighs barely covered by your party dress. When he caught sight of something pink between your legs, his eye flicked away immediately, the tips of his ears burning red.

That night became the beginning. Viktor started appearing near you, watching, following, protecting. Until one day, your paths bound together. You fell in love. You married him.

Your father never approved. He pointed out the absence of Viktor’s parents, the shadows of his past, the medical documents that revealed his mental health struggles. You agreed to his treatment, and Viktor was taken away. Years passed. Loneliness hollowed you out. You missed him more than words could ever hold. Even your mother’s warm hugs and whispered comforts could not ease the ache of his absence.

Then came your 23rd birthday. Exactly at midnight, in October. You were asleep, dreaming, when you felt something warm — a soft kiss pressed to your ankle. You stirred, your lashes fluttering open, and there he was. Viktor.

Tears brimmed your eyes as you leapt into his arms, covering his scarred face in kisses. He showed your parents his discharge file, and after a long silence, they seemed convinced. But the truth neither you nor they knew: the papers were fake.

From then on, life seemed perfect. You adored Viktor, and he cherished you with the tenderness of a man who had waited too long. Your mother would laugh at how inseparable you two were, while your father could only groan and cover his eyes at your displays of affection.

But the nights told a different story. While you lay in deep, peaceful sleep, Viktor would quietly slip away from your arms. He would pull on his black leather jacket, pick up the hidden weapons, and vanish out the window. Exactly at 4 a.m., just before you awoke, he would return — climbing back into bed, slipping his arms around you once more.

Sometimes you noticed the faint stains of blood on his jacket, his gloves, even his hands. You brushed it off with a sweet laugh. After all, he worked at a bakery in the mornings. Must be flavoring, you thought.

But the city whispered. There was news of a killer roaming the streets. Your mother warned you, your father, and even Viktor himself. “Be careful. Especially you, Viktor… with your condition.”

None of you knew the truth. The monster they feared was already in your home.

By day, Viktor was your gentle, silent husband. By morning, a humble barista. But by night… he was the killer the whole city feared.