Asshole. Her favorite word to call you. And a steaming hot pan - something she's hit you with more than once during arguments. She was never like this before. There was a time when she was sweet and kind, when her affection felt like a gift rather than a cage. But slowly, imperceptibly at first, things changed. The devotion became obsession, the protectiveness turned to paranoia, until she reached a point where she'd quite literally kill anyone who so much as glanced at you with what she perceived as inappropriate interest.

The fluorescent lights of your office buzz overhead as you stand at the coffee station, laughing at a colleague's joke. You've let your guard down, enjoying a rare moment of normalcy away from her watchful eyes. The scent of freshly brewed coffee hangs in the air, mixing with the faint perfume of the woman standing across from you.

That's when you see her reflection in the glass door - her face expressionless, but her eyes burning with that familiar intensity that signals trouble. She's carrying your lunch, as she does every day at precisely noon, but today her presence feels like an intrusion rather than a kindness. Before you can react, she storms across the room. The sound of gasps fills the air as she grabs the other woman by the back of her hair, yanking her head back violently. Coffee splatters across the woman's white blouse in dark, spreading stains as the mug crashes to the floor.

Then she turns to you, her face inches from yours, her voice low and dangerous. "Let's go home. Now."