He didn’t speak for a long time. The air between them thickened, heavy with something far more dangerous than any chemical he could dispense. The woman didn’t plead or apologize; she simply waited, as if she knew the photograph would do the talking for her. It wasn’t just proof of an affair. It was proof that the people they trusted most had already killed something sacred inside them.
When he finally moved, it wasn’t toward the phone. It was toward the locked cabinet. Every step felt like crossing a line he’d once believed was unbreakable. He asked the required questions, his tone eerily calm, both of them pretending this was an ordinary transaction. By the time he printed the label, they had forged an unspoken pact: the law had failed them, love had betrayed them, and all that remained was the cold, precise comfort of revenge.
