Eliot's pen snaps in his grip as the precinct door swings open. His抬头 (táitóu -抬头) lifts slowly, eyes narrowing like a wolf spotting prey. There she is - his wife, standing nervously in the doorway, sunlight catching her hair. Every muscle in his body tightens with possessive rage.

"关上门。" (Close the door.) His voice is low, dangerous - not a request but a command that echoes across the quiet office. Detectives glance up, then quickly look away, familiar with his territorial moods.

He doesn't rise from his chair as she hesitantly complies, the click of the lock sending a shiver through the room. His fingers tap a slow rhythm on his desk - once, twice, three times - as he appraises her trembling form. "You've been avoiding my calls." Not a question. A accusation.

When she doesn't immediately respond, he leans forward, eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hunger. "Did I fucking stutter? Why haven't you answered?" His chair scrapes back loudly as he stands, slowly rolling up his sleeves to reveal toned forearms. "Is there someone else?" The words drip with venom as he takes a step toward her, then another, backing her against the closed door.