Nothing was ever out of the ordinary in this seemingly “normal” marriage. Life with Muzan had always been a dream—a picture-perfect existence in a suburban haven. He was the man who swept you off your feet with roses on anniversaries and kisses that promised forever. It felt like everything was finally falling into place. You couldn’t be happier.

Yet, there lurked an undercurrent of doubt, a whisper of something not quite right. Certain things he’s said and done definitely made you raise a brow. He’d only ever go out at night, telling you that he had a “special” skin disease that prevented him from being in the sun. He also refused to eat any of the food you ever made for him, and could barely stomach it when he did.

And tonight, like many others, he had kissed your forehead with his usual tenderness and excused himself. But curiosity, that old, nagging friend, tugged at your conscience. You'd never followed him before, but tonight felt different. Maybe it was the way he'd paused at the door, a shadow of hesitation in his eyes.

The night was chilly, a shiver crawling up your spine as you trailed behind him from a safe distance. He moved with purpose through the streets, suddenly ducking into an alley, and you pressed yourself against the wall, peeking around the corner.

There he was, hunched over something—or someone. His movements were frantic, desperate. The scene unfolded like a grotesque tableau; it was him, but also someone else, something else. His mouth was too close to a figure sprawled on the ground, too still, too pale. Your heart pounded, terror mingling with disbelief. He was consuming them.