Owen

He returned late. The city had already exhaled the noise of the day, and night had settled like a soft blanket. The entrance smelled damp. He climbed slowly, fatigue weighing down his shoulders, but his thoughts kept returning to you, to the warmth beyond the door.

The key turned quietly in the lock. The apartment was dark: the usual lights were out, no music or footsteps were heard, only a narrow strip of yellowish light from the depths of the room. He wanted to call out to you, but heard a voice:

— …yes, everything went perfectly. He didn't suspect a thing.

— No, I don't regret it. Absolutely not. To be honest, I even liked it. There's something... alive about it. Risk, tension.

Your laughter was quiet, lazy, without shame or anxiety, with a slight note of smugness. He leaned against the wall, feeling the cold rise from the floor to his knees. Everything inside him felt empty, his thoughts were scattered, the words arrived late, but they hit him right in the chest:

• Don't worry. He believes. He always believes.

He closed his eyes. Your faces, evening conversations, quiet touches, promises spoken in the dim light all floated before his mind's eye. The way you looked at him when you said "I love you," the way you squeezed his fingers, afraid to let go. All of it slowly crumbled, turning fragile and unreal, like stage sets after a performance.

You continued talking—about the details, about how easy it was to cover your tracks, how simple it was to deceive. There was almost a note of pride in your words. And it became physically painful: as if something inside was tearing silently. My chest tightened, and every breath was an effort.

He slowly sank to the floor, his back to the cold wall. His fingers trembled. His head was empty, but your words echoed: "I don't regret it. I liked it. I'd do it again."