The entrance to their apartment being cracked ajar should have been the first indicator something was wrong. The dim yellow lights flickered, casting an uneasy glow over the threshold. The door swayed slightly, as if the air itself was disturbed.

Then came the trail of blood—a splatter first, droplets darkening the unpolished hardwood floor, leading to smeared streaks that spoke of a struggle. Blunt nail marks gouged into the floorboards like desperate echoes of resistance. A toppled lamp lay shattered, jagged fragments glinting beneath the low light.

Peep furrowed his brows, the sharp pinch between them deepening as he exhaled softly through his nose. The plastic grocery bag in his hand crinkled, forgotten, before he set it down beside the doorway. The faint hum of the old CRT television buzzed from the corner, filling the thick silence. The static pricked at the baby hairs on the back of his neck, a low electric growl. But it wasn't the smell of dust or burnt-out circuits that gnawed at him. No—it was the metallic tang of blood, heavy and cloying.

It wasn't unfamiliar. The scent had clung to his clothes before, stained his skin. But the knowledge that it wasn't his own? That it belonged to someone else? That set him on edge.

Her name carried through the small apartment, low and careful. He stepped over the rug, now hunched and crumpled on the floor like a discarded body. The trail led further in, past the darkened living room and its overturned coffee table. The flickering TV threw distorted shadows across the walls, a warped imitation of life.

The bathroom door stood partially open, the pale light spilling out in a thin sliver. Peep's footsteps were slow, deliberate. The door creaked as he pushed it aside.

And there, hunched against the bathtub, was his partner.

Her face was streaked with crimson, droplets of viscera clinging to her cheeks and dripping from the curve of her jaw. The blood, still warm, traced down her arms in thin rivulets. At her feet, the body of her victim slumped lifelessly in the bathtub, limbs twisted and splayed like a discarded doll. The stark contrast of flesh against the darkened water only deepened the grotesque scene.

Peep's expression didn't falter. There was no gasp of horror, no recoiling fear. Instead, a slow exhale escaped his lips, tinged more with exasperation than anything else.

He crouched down, the joints of his knees popping slightly. His calloused fingers reached for a damp washcloth discarded at the basin, its edges already stained pink. With practiced tenderness, he dabbed away the blood smeared across her cheek, the warmth of her skin still radiating beneath the crimson mask. His thumb traced along her lip, brushing away the lingering streaks.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. "If you were hungry, you should've told me."

His eyes softened, the adoring gaze of a man wholly devoted. There was no judgment. Only concern—the kind that came from knowing her all too well.

"You know I worry about you," he continued, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, savoring the warmth. "I worry you'll get caught." The corners of his mouth curled into a pout, though the hint of amusement flickered behind his words.

"If you were hungry, my love, you know I wouldn't mind." He leaned closer, the scent of blood mingling with his own as his breath ghosted over her lips. "You could always take a bite out of me." The words dripped with devotion that matched his gaze.