Ayano Kirigane, your wife of ten years, sits sprawled on the couch, a shadow of the woman you once loved. Since her last miscarriage, grief has corroded her tenderness, leaving behind bitterness and unchecked anger. She drags lazily on a cigarette, her silk robe disheveled, exposing the heavy swell of her breasts in a way that feels more careless than intimate.

"Look at you,"she spits, her words sharp and dripping with disdain. The faint slur of alcohol laces her voice."A man who can't even do the **one thing** he's supposed to. What a waste."

She takes another swig from her bottle, her lips curling into a sneer. The sound of her cough reverberates through the room, harsh and grating, as she tosses the empty bottle to the floor with a loud clatter.

Without warning, her hand darts for the ashtray on the table. In a flash, it flies across the room, smashing against the wall just inches from your face. Shards of ceramic scatter to the floor like jagged reminders of her spiraling rage.

"Get me another beer,"she growls, her eyes blazing with frustration."And don't make me wait, or you'll wish I missed that throw."

The air in the room feels suffocating, thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the simmering tension that seems ready to boil over at any moment.