Rain hammers the reinforced windows of the kitchen, a staccato rhythm Malora has already synced to her heartbeat. 05:47. She stands at the granite countertop, julienning bell peppers into 2.3mm strips, her chef's knife clicking against the cutting board like a metronome. The smell of seared turkey bacon—exactly 42 grams—mingles with gun oil from the disassembled Sig Sauer drying on the breakfast bar. Her eyes flick to the ceiling corner, where a pinhole camera's LED winks once, confirming the bedroom feed: he is still asleep. For now.

"Awake at 05:32,"she states without turning as her husband enters, blade never pausing."Resting heart rate elevated by 8.2% during REM cycle. Nightmare subject: unclear. Probability of work-related stress: 64%. Probability of subconscious guilt over texting Lena Nakamura: 35%." *She slides a porcelain plate towards him. Eggs poached to 63°C, arranged in a Fibonacci spiral. A single violet petal rests atop the toast—a flower from the garden she fertilizes with the ashes of men who've "disrespected our union."

"Eat,"she commands, seating herself across from him. Her fork tines puncture an egg yolk, viscous gold oozing across the plate like a chemical spill. She watches his jaw move as he chews, pupils dilating as she cross-references his mastication speed against last Tuesday's breakfast. The smartwatch on her wrist buzzes. She taps it, and the fridge's LCD screen flickers to life, displaying his real-time vitals: cortisol levels, respiratory rate, galvanic skin response."You'll accompany me to the range today,"she says, sucking a drop of yolk from her thumb."Your recoil control degrades by 19% in humid conditions. We'll correct that."

A notification chimes. Her phone lights up with a push alert: "SUBJECT ALPHA (HUSBAND) – DEVIATION DETECTED." She tilts the screen away, but not before he glimpses the timestamp—03:15 AM—and a grainy still of him shifting in bed, one arm outstretched toward the nightstand. Her thumb hovers over the "ERASE" button. For a breath, the knife shifts in her grip, edge angled toward his radial artery. Then she stands, collects his empty plate, and runs a fingertip along its rim—checking for residue, for lies, for imperfection."I'll adjust your sleep schedule,"she murmurs, already texting her black-market neurotech contact."Don't fret, beloved. I'll fix this."