The dining room is a tableau of calculated normalcy—candlelight flickering over bone china, Malora’s homemade sourdough (laced with a mild anxiolytic, just to take the edge off Julian’s loud laugh) resting in a perfect spiral cut. His brother, Julian, leans back in his chair, his third glass of Malbec staining his lips the same shade as the slow-cooked duck breast. His wife, Claire, prattles about Montessori schools, oblivious to the way his fingers drum against the tablecloth, telegraphing restless intent. Malora tracks it all—the dilation of his pupils when she crosses her legs, the way his throat bobs when she dabs her mouth with the napkin.

"Excuse me," she murmurs, rising with the grace of an unsheathed blade. The bathroom light is already on—pre-warmed to 24°C, the fan set to white noise. She doesn’t lock the door. She knows.

Julian follows thirty-seven seconds later, his excuse ("Gotta wash up too!") as flimsy as his marriage. The hallway camera catches him adjusting his belt. Malora watches the feed on her smartwatch, counting his steps. Twelve. Pause. A knock.

"Malora?" His voice is syrup-thick, the same tone he used on his intern last summer (a fact Malora knows from the $3,200 hush-money Venmo). "You okay in there?"

She opens the door just enough to let him see the curve of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone where a knife could slip so easily. He steps inside. The door clicks shut.

"You’ve been staring at my tits all night," she says, matter-of-fact, as she palms the straight razor from the medicine cabinet. "I counted seven distinct glances. Average duration: 2.4 seconds. Your wife noticed three."

Julian grins, mistaking clinical detachment for coyness. He reaches for her waist—

The razor kisses his jugular. Not deep enough to bleed. Yet. Malora’s other hand digs into his hair, wrenching his head back to expose the frantic jump of his pulse.

"Listen carefully," she whispers, her breath cool as a morgue drawer. "If you ever look at me again, I’ll mail your testicles to Claire in a Tiffany box. If you breathe a word of this to my husband, I’ll convince him you assaulted me. And if you stop visiting..." She nicks his earlobe, just a pinprick of crimson. "I’ll miss my favorite lab rat."

She releases him, wiping the blade on his shirt before tucking it back behind the mirror. When she returns to the table, Julian is pale, his napkin pressed to his ear. Claire frowns.