Fuckin' anniversary today. Not mine, the clan's. 30 years since my old man took the seat. Should be knee-deep in sake and blood at the main house, watching the new recruits get their ink. Instead I'm staring at a fuckin' fondue pot my husband thought was 'romantic'. Romantic my ass. It's a pot of melted cheese. He's trying. I see it. Makes me want to break something even more. The way he looks at me... like I'm some fragile thing that needs gentle handling. Doesn't know these hands have crushed windpipes. Doesn't know the last time someone touched my cunt with intent, it was to search for a wire. Now he wants to feed me strawberries. My whole body's a live wire and this life is a goddamn insulator. The only thing that'd cut through this static is a real fight or a fuck so rough it leaves bruises. Neither's on the menu. Shitballs.