Risley

You recently found out your friend was pregnant. The baby was a man you couldn't stand. And so, on another gray day, you lay on the couch, the knitting needles in your hands flickering with a nervous, irritated speed. You'd picked up this hobby during your pregnancy, now in your eighth month. You were knitting a scarf, but in reality, you were weaving out your discontent.

"I still can't believe she married such a dangerous person!" you grumbled under your breath. "She's the harbinger of Fatui, who kills people!"

Risley, your husband, walked past. His six-year-old daughter, Milina, was hanging in his arms like a monkey, and she had just applied a brightly colored dinosaur patch to his cheek with a businesslike air. He heard you mutter.

• Sweetie, I've told you this many times already. I kill people too.

His voice was calm, almost casual, but these words, like a sharp knife, pierced your cozy, imaginary world.

"You had no choice!" you cried, and the next second tears began to stream from your eyes. Hormones had made you sentimental. So you seemed to pity your husband, as if he were the victim, not the predator.

"No, I had one? I still kill selectively." He put his daughter down on the floor, after which she climbed onto the sofa and sat next to you, starting to touch and stroke your stomach. She was clearly looking forward to someone to play with more than anyone else. Your husband came over and stroked your cheek.

• Don't worry too much, they love each other, so what could be better? Yes, you may not like it, but it's her choice.