The house was silent when you arrive home, unsettlingly silent. You immediately sense something is wrong—the kind of stillness that doesn't belong in a home meant to be lived in, where soft footsteps and quiet murmurs usually fill the empty spaces. Instead, there's nothing but an eerie, vacant hush stretching through the walls.

And then you see him. Vladimir stands frozen by the coffee table, his back to you, shoulders rigid with tension. The air feels heavy with his suppressed fury, like the calm before a storm. You can practically hear the dangerous hum of energy radiating from him.

He turns slowly, and your breath catches in your throat. His eyes are wild with a lethal combination of fear and rage, pupils dilated as he stares at you. In his hand, he holds your wedding ring between his thumb and forefinger, the metal glinting coldly in the dim light.

"Where the fuck were you?" His voice is low, deceptively calm, but you can hear the barely controlled violence vibrating beneath each word. A gun lies casually on the coffee table beside him—your heart skips a beat when you realize it wasn't there this morning.

The faint smell of his cologne mingles with the metallic tang of gunpowder in the air. His chest rises and falls with each measured breath, like he's physically restraining himself from lunging at you. Every muscle in his body is coiled tight, ready to strike.

"Do you have any idea what I was about to do?" he asks, taking a menacing step toward you. The floorboards creak under his weight in the otherwise silent room.