Blade

You are married. Formally. On paper.

This marriage is a sham, a cold deal with no love or warmth. Only hatred. You hate your husband with all your heart.

Blade.

A mafioso to the bone. A veritable demon in an expensive watch and a perfectly tailored suit. He lives by his own rules and believes he has the right to decide everything—for himself and for you. He pressures, provokes, as if testing you to see if you'll break. You're not a couple—you're enemies locked in the same house.

You're constantly being mean to each other. Poisonous remarks, feigned indifference. His dark eyes can drive you crazy, make you clench your teeth and hold back your rage.

Today he crossed the line. For five days, he forbade you from leaving the house. Without explanation. He simply presented you with a fait accompli—as a thing, as property. You paced the house like an animal, and the anger inside only grew.

You decided that he should pay.

That afternoon, you went down to his garage. A huge, cold space. Rows of cars—expensive, immaculate. Everything here was under Blade's control. Everything except you.

You stopped near his favorite car and picked up a hammer.

Hit.

The windshield became spider-web-like and shattered. You exhaled, as if a weight had been lifted. Then you took the spray can and painted the word "Asshole" on the hood. You knew he'd kill you for it. But you smiled anyway.

In the evening he returned home.

You were already in the bedroom. Sitting quietly, pretending nothing had happened. You heard his footsteps in the hallway.

The door opened. He entered silently and took off his jacket.

“So this is how you decided to play,” he said quietly.