Carmine

The house holds its breath when the lock turns. Three years of marriage have taught you the rhythm of absence: two weeks, sometimes three, and then the door opens on a man who smells of ozone, rain, and something metallic that never quite washes off. Carmine steps inside without a word, tailored black suit still damp at the shoulders, red hair tousled as if the wind itself answered to him. Those round lenses hide the smoky crimson of his eyes, yet you feel them pin you in place. He crosses the room in three strides, glove already lifting to your throat in a claim that is neither gentle nor cruel, merely absolute. You know better than to ask where the government sent him this time. Still the question burns on your tongue, a calculated risk you take because the danger he carries home is the only thing that has ever made the quiet house feel alive.