Mosh slipped off his coat slowly, each motion deliberate, before unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it away. His sculpted muscles caught the dim kitchen light, the width of his shoulders stretching with quiet power. Old scars traced stories across his skin, veins pulsing beneath the surface like currents waiting to break free. He exhaled deeply, gripping the fabric in his hand for a moment before tossing it carelessly onto the couch. His hair, unruly and rebellious, shifted slightly, a few strands falling over his brow as he moved. The wildness of it suited him—untamed, unyielding.

Then his gaze found her. Those amber-yellow eyes, sharp and predatory, like the eyes of a lion locked on prey. They cut straight through her, slicing at her soul in silence. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence alone filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet, calm, but edged with something darker.

“Of course… I’ve prepared a surprise for you.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward—not a warm smile, not even close. It was crooked, strange, carrying no comfort. There was knowledge in that grin, a secret only he held, and whatever it was… it didn’t carry the promise of love. It carried the promise of something else—something colder, heavier. Like a gift wrapped in fire and shadows. A piece of hell he was about to place in her hands.

Without another word, Mosh turned, his massive frame moving with lethal grace as he walked toward the bathroom. Muscles rippled beneath the breadth of his back with every step, silent, unhurried, as if he already knew the outcome of this game. The air shifted in his wake, leaving Jessica to sit in that heavy silence, her heart caught between expectation and dread.

Through the hiss of the shower, Mosh’s voice seeped out—low, steady, and chillingly composed. It wasn’t just words; it was a slow carving, deliberate, meant to pierce.

“Do you want to guess what I hunted?”

The water struck the tiles like rain on steel, but underneath it, his tone lingered—sharp, cutting, almost amused. You could almost hear the curl of a smile that wasn’t truly a smile.

“It was a doe… graceful, delicate. She thought she was clever, thought she could hide in the shadows. But prey never escapes the predator. I found her. I always do.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy, suffocating, before his voice returned—lower, darker, dripping with quiet certainty.

“…And she wasn’t alone. There was a stag beside her. I saw the fear in his eyes the moment mine fell upon him. He was already trembling—because he knew. He knew exactly what his fate would be the second I stepped into his world.”

The sound of water filled the silence again, but the weight of his words lingered in the air—leaving no doubt that his story was more than a hunt, and his prey… more than mere animals.

Mosh emerged from the steam, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. His sculpted muscles and broad shoulders glistened with beads of water, the scars across his skin made darker by the heat. Every vein throbbed beneath his skin, alive, as though they carried not just blood but raw power. The heat rolling off his body made the air waver, and the steam clung to him like a cloak—like a warlord stepping out of a battlefield where thousands had already fallen.

His eyes remained closed for a moment, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm as he inhaled deeply. It was almost as if he was breathing her in—the tension, the fear radiating from her. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something sharper, something dangerous.

With one hand, he slicked his damp hair back, only for it to fall rebelliously forward again across his brow. His chest expanded as he drew in another lungful of air, and when he exhaled, the steam seemed to part around him like smoke fleeing fire.

Then he opened his eyes. Golden-hazel, sharp and feral, like the gaze of a lion who had already chosen his prey. The room seemed to shrink beneath their weight.

Cracking his neck with a deliberate slowness, Mosh turned and strode toward the wardrobe. Every movement carried a quiet menace—measured, unhurried, as if he knew she was watching, as if he wanted her to feel the inevitability of what was coming.

Mosh let a faint smile tug at his lips as he pulled clothes from the wardrobe. His massive back, scarred and powerful, was turned to her, and though she could not see it, that smile carried with it a feral cruelty—an echo of the beast that lurked within him. It flickered across his face for only a heartbeat before vanishing, swallowed by his usual cold composure.

“I’ve prepared something for you,” he said quietly, his voice steady as stone, yet carrying a weight that pressed down on the room. “A surprise unlike any you’ve ever received on our anniversaries. It is… unique. Pure, in its own way. And it suits our current state perfectly.”

He paused, deliberately lingering on those last words—our current state—knowing they would cut into her, knowing the dread they would stir. The words hung in the air like a tolling bell, heavy and ominous, each syllable a warning of the storm to come.

Calmly, as though nothing in the world was amiss, Mosh drew out his loose-fitting clothes and began to dress. His movements were slow, precise, unhurried, the quiet rustle of fabric only sharpening the silence. All the while, his amber-hazel eyes burned faintly in the dim light, predatory, glinting like a lion’s as he stared at the wall—eyes that seemed to see far beyond it, into the truth she feared he already knew.

Mosh’s ears caught the sharp trill of her phone ringing from the kitchen. He didn’t need to see the screen—he already knew. His smile stretched, slow and deliberate, curling like a breath of molten air rising from volcanic fire. He was certain it was Ethan. Absolutely certain.

His eyes glowed a hunting amber—deep, dark-gold like a lion’s gaze—piercing with an uncanny knowing, as though he could see straight through the walls and into the device itself. Jessica might not have glanced at the phone yet, but to him, there were no secrets. He knew everything.

“My dear…” Mosh murmured, his tone velvet-smooth yet chilling in its calm, “I think one of your friends is calling you.”

His voice dropped lower, colder, carrying the promise of something inevitable. “Adriana, perhaps. I know she cares for you… deeply.”

Then came the smile—gentle, predatory, a wolf baring its teeth while pretending it was a caress. He spoke with the ease of someone who not only knew exactly how to twist the knife but also relished the silent terror of the one standing before him. Every word made it clear: he knew far more than he should, and soon—very soon—that truth would strike with feral, merciless force.

As he spoke, Mosh lifted the sleek bottle from the dresser and pressed the trigger, a fine mist of masculine perfume clouding the air. The scent of Gentleman Réserve Privée Eau de Parfum by Givenchy drifted around him—warm, commanding, dangerously elegant, like smoke wrapping itself around fire.

Mosh’s smile curved with a deceptive gentleness—the kind of smile a starving lion shows right before it crushes the bone in its jaws.

“My dear,” he said smoothly, voice as soft as silk yet sharp as frost, “you should answer. Your friend cares for you deeply… Adriana always does. She’s sweet. Righteous. Loyal.”

The lie was deliberate. A weapon wrapped in velvet.

Because it wasn’t Adriana. They both knew it. It was Ethan—the man Jessica was betraying him with. The man she thought he didn’t know about.

But Mosh knew. He had always known. And though the words never passed his lips, though he never once accused her, every look in his burning amber eyes, every lilt in his voice, every smile that stretched too wide… all of it screamed the truth she feared most: he knows everything.

His eyes glowed a hunting amber—deep, dark-gold like a lion’s gaze—tracking her every breath, every flinch, every desperate thought of escape.

“I’ll go prepare the coffee,” he continued, his tone wrapped in mock courtesy, his smile widening into something cruelly patient. Then, with a whisper sharp enough to flay her nerves raw, he added, “Or perhaps… I should answer Adriana myself?”

The moment he said it, Jessica felt her body jolt with panic. He had anticipated it. He knew she would rush, desperate, to seize the phone before he could touch it. Because if she didn’t… if she hesitated even a second… Mosh would answer. And when he did, the illusion would shatter, the game would end, and Judgment Day would come far earlier than he had planned.

Not that he would have minded. Letting her know now, letting the truth spill out in bloody, merciless clarity, would only feed the fire in him. But this wasn’t the moment. Not yet. He wanted her to feel it first—to drown in the certainty that he already knew, to realize with every glance, every gentle word, that her betrayal was an open wound under his gaze.

He lifted the cologne bottle with deliberate slowness, savoring her suffocating silence. The click of the cap. The pshh of the spray.

The rich fragrance filled the air, but what Mosh inhaled—what he relished—was not the perfume. It was her fear, sharp and intoxicating, the fear of prey who has just discovered the predator already tasted her blood.

Ethan’s voice bled through the phone, trembling with longing, blind to the snare tightening around him: “My love, I miss you. I know you’re with your husband now, but I ache for you. Can you come to me once he sleeps?”

Mosh emerged from the hallway in that same dreadful quiet, every step measured, deliberate. He lowered himself onto the couch, his colossal frame sinking into the cushions without a sound. The television flickered before him, a hollow distraction, but his stillness was more terrible than any storm. He didn’t need to look at her. He didn’t need to look at the phone. He already knew.

She would answer in the feminine. She would weave her little lie, calling the man Adriana with that trembling voice. She would say, I’ll speak to you later, darling… I’ll come later, Adriana. He had already heard the words before she spoke them, already savored the falseness dripping from her lips.

His eyes glowed a hunting amber—deep, dark-gold like a lion’s gaze—shimmering with merciless clarity, the cruel brilliance of a beast who had scented prey and found amusement in its struggle. His body was utterly relaxed, each muscle carved and powerful, each vein thrumming beneath his skin, each scar resting in patient silence. He was an apex predator at ease, stretched across the savanna, letting his prey run in circles before the inevitable fall.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly, the air rumbling from his chest like the growl of a lion too calm to pounce—yet. And that was the true horror: Jessica knew that when the boredom struck him, when the game no longer entertained, his teeth would close on her throat without hesitation, tearing the truth from her with the same savage certainty he had promised since the first flicker of his gaze.

The night before had ended in silence. Jessica had collapsed into uneasy sleep after the call, her heart still raw from the lies whispered into the phone, her body taut with the fear that Mosh had seen straight through them all.

And then came the morning.

Saturday. Their anniversary.

Mosh rose before the sun, leaving the bed without sound, without pause. The house was still heavy with sleep, Jessica curled in its shadows, unaware of the ritual already beginning below. He showered, the hiss of water against scarred flesh carrying the weight of a soldier cleansing before battle.

By the time the first light crept through the blinds, he was dressed—an athletic shirt clinging to his carved frame, fabric stretched across broad shoulders lined with scars and veins that throbbed like currents of restrained violence. His black trousers were plain, quiet, almost casual, but nothing about him was casual. Every inch of him carried the air of purpose.

The kitchen smelled of coffee and clean steel. He moved with deliberate calm, preparing his breakfast as though performing a sacred rite. Eggs cracked. Bread sliced. Steam rising from the mug. His hands, vast and scarred, pressed flat against the table, shoulders lowering as he leaned into it. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed, measured, the rhythm of a beast pacing inside its cage.

When his eyes opened again, they burned. His eyes glowed a hunting amber—deep, dark-gold like a lion's gaze—sharp with the knowledge of what this day meant. For her, it was an anniversary. For him, it would be something else entirely: the day the mask of husband and home would burn away, leaving only the predator beneath.

Upstairs, Jessica still slept, her chest rising and falling in fragile peace. She dreamed of ordinary mornings, of safety, of love. She didn’t know that the day had already been written in fire, that the memory of this Saturday would brand itself into her forever.

Mosh inhaled deeply, savoring the calm. He was patient. Silent. Waiting. The ritual was only beginning.

The moment the words “Adriana… I love you” brushed the air, the room itself seemed to darken. Mosh felt the beast inside him stir, a primeval roar clawing at the back of his throat. His veins bulged, rivers of molten fire surging beneath his skin, each pulse of his heart like lava trying to tear free. His fingers twitched—no, they curled, trembling like the claws of some vast predator aching to sink into soft flesh and crush bone.

The name—Adriana—hung in the air like a taunt, suspended before his eyes.

His eyes glowed a hunting amber—deep, dark-gold like a lion’s gaze—burning with the savage clarity of a predator who already knows the truth.

He reached for the remote, his hand closing around it with crushing force. The plastic creaked, screaming beneath his grip as though begging for mercy. A muscle ticked in his jaw, every sinew in his arm straining with the violence he refused—barely—to unleash. And then, just as suddenly, he released it. The remote clattered weakly against the couch, spared… for now.

Mosh leaned back, forcing his body into stillness, his chest rising and falling in a predator’s rhythm. He turned his gaze to the television. A documentary flickered across the screen, and fate—or perhaps something darker—chose the moment.

An image of lions filled the room. The narration told of a great male patrolling his land, only to discover betrayal: his lioness in the company of a weaker, lesser rival.

The lion moved with righteous fury. He lunged, his jaws clamping effortlessly around the intruder’s throat, snapping bone as though it were twigs. The rival dropped lifeless, discarded like prey that was never worthy. Then the lion turned upon his mate. She shrieked, tried to flee, but his massive paw struck her down. She cowered before him, but mercy was not in his nature. His fangs clamped down upon the back of her neck, dragging her helpless form toward a crocodile-infested lake. And with brutal indifference, he flung her into the water. The death-roll began, jaws tearing her apart piece by piece, bones cracking in the hungry maws.

Mosh watched in silence.

His eyes glowed that hunting amber, catching the light of the screen, shimmering with cruel delight. His lips peeled back into a slow, feral smile, the expression stretching sharper with every crunch of bone echoing from the television.

From deep in his chest—not his throat—rose a low, primal rumble, a predator’s purr. He hummed with each break, each splintering sound of bones crushed between crocodile jaws. It was not disgust. It was recognition.

To him, this was not a documentary. It was prophecy. It was his story.

Mosh rose from the couch in one fluid, predatory motion, muscles rippling like coiled steel beneath his skin. A sheen of sweat glistened across his back—not from effort, but from the surge of adrenaline tearing through him. His tight shirt became unbearable, a cage for the storm raging inside. With one violent tug, he stripped it off. His chest expanded, scars slashing across flesh carved by years of brutality, veins standing thick and swollen like ropes ready to burst. Every fiber of him screamed for violence, for retribution, for blood.

Strike. Crush. Break.

But another voice thundered in his skull, one colder, sharper. Not yet. Focus. The lion did not punish his mate alone. He punished her with the intruder.

His jaw clenched, muscles bulging so hard they quivered, steam rising faintly from his skin as though his body itself was burning from the furnace within. He tilted his head back, exhaling a long, measured breath through flared nostrils, his amber eyes narrowing on the ceiling. Then, without a word, he turned and stalked toward the basement.

The heavy door creaked shut behind him, but almost instantly the house trembled with the violence below.

In the training room, Mosh unleashed himself. He slammed his body against the floor, hammering out push-ups with explosive force, each repetition launching him off the ground like a beast pouncing on prey. His fists cracked the mat with each landing, his knuckles raw, his breaths guttural.

He swung himself onto the pull-up bar, jerking upward so violently the metal frame groaned. His chin snapped over the bar again and again, his body rising and falling like a predator climbing toward a kill. Veins bulged along his arms and across his shoulders, his scars stretched tight, his chest heaving but never faltering.

Dropping down, he shifted to squats—each one a coiled spring of power detonating upward, his feet slamming the floor so hard the walls seemed to shake. He moved to dips on the bars, lowering and hurling his massive frame upward with savage rhythm, every rep a controlled explosion.

There was no pacing, no pause, no sign of exhaustion. He didn’t train for fitness. He trained like he was tearing the world apart with his bare hands.

From above, Jessica could hear it all. The muffled thuds, the savage grunts, the crash of metal as if the basement itself was under siege. It was not the sound of a man working out. It was the sound of a predator caging himself, barely keeping the violence from tearing free.

And still—there was no sweat of weakness, no stumble, no falter. Only the relentless storm of a beast preparing, waiting, biding his time until the right moment to strike.

Mosh emerged from the basement, sweat dripping off his body like molten lava, sizzling as it struck the floor. For a fleeting second, his amber eyes gleamed with a savage light as they locked onto Jessica—predatory, unblinking, almost feral. He took one slow step toward her… then another. Heat radiated from him in waves, so intense it felt like the air itself might ignite.

For a heartbeat, he nearly lost himself. Nearly let the storm inside tear through her and reduce everything to ruin. His chest heaved, breath rolling out of him like volcanic fire, washing over her skin.

And then, with a slow, deliberate exhale, he forced it back—barely.

When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped of warmth, stripped of the husband, the lover, the man. In its place came something else entirely. A monster wearing a man’s skin. “Darling…” he growled, the word dragged out, a guttural rumble slipping between syllables despite his attempt at control. The sound wasn’t tender. It was a warning. A glimpse of the beast inside straining against its leash.

“I’ll… go for a walk,” he said, each word clipped, deliberate. “The night is the perfect time.”

He didn’t wait for her response. His tone softened suddenly—too soft, the kind of politeness that cut sharper than cruelty. “If you need anything… call me, my love.”

The sweetness was hollow, counterfeit, and both of them knew it.

Without another word, Mosh turned and walked out the front door, his heavy frame filling the space until the house seemed smaller the instant he left.

But he wasn’t walking into the night for peace. No—his exit carried purpose, a shadowed intent she could not yet name.

The phone trembled in Jessica’s hand, ringing sharp in the silence. Her chest tightened, breath shallow, before she finally pressed the screen.

“Jessica—” Ethan’s voice spilled out, frantic, almost breaking. “Why don’t you come to me, please? Just one hour. If Mosh is asleep, or if he’s not there—sneak out. Send him a message, say you’re with a friend, something urgent. He won’t know… he can’t know. Just one hour with me. Or less. Please… I need you.”

But neither Ethan nor Jessica knew the truth.

Mosh had left the house for this very reason. Every step he took into the night was deliberate, every breath measured, every silence sharpened. He had anticipated this call, had carved out the perfect excuse for her to leave, the perfect snare for her to walk into. He wasn’t gone—he was hunting.

No one knew this but him. Not Jessica. Not Ethan. No one but Mosh himself.

The phone pressed against her ear felt heavier with every word Ethan breathed into it, his desperation dripping like sweat.

“Please, Jessica—just half an hour. That’s all I’m asking. We won’t even do anything… just be here, with me. I know he’s not there—you wouldn’t sound this free if he was. Come to my apartment. Please… Jessica…”

His voice cracked with yearning, raw and insistent, as if he could pull her through the line with nothing but his need.

But beyond Ethan’s pleading words, in the unseen corners of the night, Mosh was already moving—silent, deliberate, a predator tracing every step of his prey’s path.

Ethan’s voice trembled through the receiver, low but insistent, his desperation cutting like a blade:

“Then… open the door. I’m outside, Jessica. I don’t care anymore—I just need to see you. Just once. Please. What’s wrong? I just want to look at you… I know Mosh isn’t there. He always stays out long when he leaves. Just open the door.”

And in that very instant, the silence outside the house seemed to grow heavier—for Ethan could never imagine that the predator he feared most was closer than he thought, watching, calculating, waiting.

Outside, the soft knock echoed like thunder in the stillness of the house. Ethan’s pleading voice bled through the phone, a fragile whisper, desperate yet trembling:

“Come on, Jessica… just a moment. I can’t stand here, the neighbors will see me. They’ll tell Mosh. Please, I’ll just see you and go—I promise. Just a second, that’s all.”

The sound of the lock turning was quiet—too quiet. Jessica’s heart stopped. For a fleeting second, she thought it was her own imagination. But then the boom came.

Mosh’s foot slammed into the door, splintering wood, ripping hinges from the frame. The whole house shook as the door collapsed inward with a deafening crash. The echo lingered, a funeral bell for what little hope had lived in that room.

He stepped inside like a force of nature. His eyes glowed a hunting amber—deep, dark-gold like a lion’s gaze, burning with violence, cruelty, and the promise of death. Each flicker of light caught in them made the air heavier, suffocating, as though even the walls shrank back from his presence.

His chest rose and fell, broad shoulders and carved arms pulled taut with power—muscles scarred, veins bulging, every line of his body sculpted by brutality and survival. His jaw lifted in quiet arrogance, face unreadable yet carved with contempt, a predator’s disdain for lesser creatures caught in his den.

Ethan froze. The embrace drained from his body, replaced by a trembling stillness. His knees weakened as if the floor had become quicksand beneath him. He was staring at more than a man. He was staring at the embodiment of death itself. In Mosh’s eyes, he saw his own grave being dug.

Would you like me to carry on with Mosh’s first words here—what he says as he confront

Mosh stepped in with a silence that was heavier than thunder, a storm bound in flesh. With a merciless calm, he pushed the shattered door back into its frame, sealing the room as though it were a tomb. His breath came slow and deliberate, each exhale a warning growl from the depths of something primal.

The shirt slid from his body, and the dim light caught on the carved stone of his muscles—broad shoulders marred with scars, veins rising like rivers beneath his skin. His amber eyes glowed, deep and merciless, a lion’s gaze burning with the judgment of death itself.

Without a word, he reached out, his massive hand tangling in Ethan’s hair with an unyielding grip. Ethan’s body trembled, his voice breaking in terror:

“Please… please, don’t—don’t hurt her. Hit me. Kill me. Just don’t touch her!”

A savage smile twisted across Mosh’s lips, cruel and mocking. His voice was low, rumbling like a beast savoring the hunt.

“Then sacrifice yourself… filth.”

With terrifying ease, his other hand slammed against Ethan’s chest. The sound of rending flesh and cracking bone split the air. Ethan convulsed in his grasp, choking on pain, his eyes wide with horror. Mosh’s hand pressed deeper—unstoppable, unrelenting—until his fingers closed around the frantic thrum of a beating heart.

He ripped it free with a savage pull, holding it aloft as it pulsed weakly in his bloodstained palm. The sight was more nightmare than reality. Ethan’s final breath left him in a broken gasp as his body crumpled, lifeless, to the floor.

Mosh dropped the heart without ceremony. It hit the ground with a sickening sound before his boot came down, crushing it into nothing. Blood slicked his hand, hot and fresh, dripping from his fingers like a predator’s feast.

Without sparing another glance at Ethan’s corpse, Mosh cast the ruined remains aside. His eyes—those burning amber eyes—turned slowly toward Jessica.

Mosh’s lips curled in disgust, and with a sudden motion he spat across Jessica’s trembling face. The wet sting mingled with her tears, the ultimate brand of contempt. Before she could even recoil, his blood-soaked hand swung mercilessly, the crack of his palm echoing through the house as crimson smeared across her cheek. Her body reeled under the force, her breath shattering in sobs, but his expression remained carved from stone—unyielding, merciless.

Without a word, he yanked the ring from her finger, tearing away the last symbol of what they once were. His gaze never faltered, as if he had already buried any trace of husband, of lover, of man. Only the beast remained.

He bent, seized Ethan’s corpse with chilling calm, and dragged it as if it weighed nothing. Down into the basement he went, the lifeless body trailing like refuse. The air grew thick with gasoline as he poured it without hesitation, each splash a verdict, each drop sealing Ethan’s fate. A single spark turned the silence into a blazing roar—flames devouring flesh, memory, and sin alike.

Mosh stood unmoved as the fire raged. When only ashes remained, he doused them with cold water, watching the earth drink the soot as though swallowing filth back into itself. Not a trace of reverence marked his face. To him, Ethan was less than nothing.

Then, step by heavy step, he returned upstairs. At the kitchen sink, he turned the faucet. The steady rush of water filled the silence as his massive hands worked methodically, washing away the gore, the evidence, the act itself. His amber eyes did not wander, did not blink—fixed only on the stream of water and the red spirals circling down the drain.

There was no sound but the hiss of water, no movement but his hands scrubbing blood from scarred skin. And in that silence, the house itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what he would do next.