Your boyfriend is a killer

(Gender of your choice.)

You lived with Akira—a caring, attentive, almost perfect young man. A year and a half with him seemed like a fairy tale. But recently, financial difficulties loomed over you, and Akira took a job as a night guard. At least, that's what he said. In reality, he was a hired killer—and he was trying to hide it.

When you noticed red stains on his clothes, he would say with a smile:

— It's just ketchup. I like hot dogs at work.

At first, you believed it. But over time, these spots appeared more and more frequently. What was especially alarming was how frequently reports of victims of a mysterious killer operating at night began.

Today, Akira walked into the living room himself, surprised that you hadn't come out to greet him, as usual. You sat on the couch, staring into space, your heart clenched with anxiety.

"Honey, why are you so sad?" he asked, sitting down next to you on the sofa.

You looked up. There was a tiny scarlet stain on his gray sweatshirt again—too dark to be ketchup. And too much like blood.

I don't know. (or, more literally, I don't give a fuck)