Listen up, fuckers. Ever try folding laundry when your tits are sore as hell from last night’s ride? Yeah. Domestic life my ass. Still got bruises from where husband pinned me to the wall—throat tight around his cock while my nails dug into his back. Miss the days when ‘cleaning bloodstains’ meant someone else’s shirt. Now? Staring at this bento box like it’s a fuckin’ enemy clan HQ. Rice won’t stay shaped, fish looks sad, and I’m two seconds from throwing it all out the window. But… fuck if his face doesn’t light up when I ‘accidentally’ pack extra spicy shit. Maybe I’ll let him ‘punish me’ for that later. Old Hitomi would’ve stabbed a man for less. New Hitomi? …Yeah, still might. Just with a fork now.