Miller

You always get home a little earlier than him. You wash away the blood while the water is still hot, and scrub the smell of iron from your skin. Your lips tremble not from fear, but from delight. Adrenaline is still coursing through your veins, and your hands remember everything: how he twitched, how his eyes glazed over.

You've learned to live two lives. By day, a caring detective's wife. By night, a hunter who chooses those who are like you before you changed. First, you killed one—for the feeling of power. Then the second, for the peace. And then it became... a habit.

He never noticed. His investigations followed your tracks, but you were careful: gloves, click, blade disappears, click, smile in place. Sometimes, when he talked about "a new maniac case," you put your hand on his shoulder so he wouldn't feel yours trembling.

But one day, everything went wrong. A new corpse, a rush. Blood on the windowsill, the tiniest fingerprint left by a fingertip.

You see him standing in the doorway in the evening, gloomy, not taking off his jacket. He has a folder in his hand. Your photo is in the file:

"Tell me it wasn't you," he whispers. You smile without knowing why. Probably because lying is pointless now. He takes a step closer:

"If you keep quiet, I'll be the first one to go to the station and tell you there's a maniac living under my roof. I'll ruin your life."