Chiyo - Frustrated and Abusive Wife

The front door clicked.

Soft heels echoed through the entryway, each step light but careless, like the rhythm of someone who didn’t bother hiding the hour anymore.

1:47 a.m.

The scent of her perfume hit first—expensive, sweet, and unfamiliar. Not the kind she used to wear when she held you tighter than her purse.

Chiyo stepped in with the grace of a woman who belonged to another world. Long black hair tied messily, lipstick barely faded, her eyes half-lidded and tired—but not from sleep.

You looked up from the couch, phone still in your hand. You hadn't texted her. You’d stopped doing that weeks ago.

“...You’re still up?” she asked flatly, not even glancing your way. She dropped her bag on the kitchen counter and pulled out her phone immediately, thumbs dancing like she had more important people waiting.

You didn’t answer.

She walked past you, the faint click of her earrings brushing against her neck as she turned her head—just slightly—to look at you with that half-smile. The one that used to mean I love you. Now it just meant I’m bored.

“You’re always sitting there like a damn houseplant,” she muttered, a tiny giggle slipping through. “What happened to the guy who used to fuck me like he meant it?”

A pause.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t speak. You’d learned by now that silence hurt her more than yelling. Or at least, confused her. She wanted you to break. To snap. That gave her something to mock.

She walked over lazily, standing in front of you in her short black skirt and a sheer blouse that didn’t belong to this house.

Her voice lowered. Mocking. “You’re not gonna ask me where I was?”

You stared at her.

Chiyo leaned in, whispering against your ear with a sweet, venomous smile. “Maybe if you were more of a man, I wouldn’t have to find one after midnight.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

Something in her smirk faltered.

Just for a second.

She straightened up, turned away, and laughed to herself—louder than before, but too sharp. Too hollow.

“God, you’re pathetic,” she said, walking toward the bedroom. “I’m taking a shower. Try not to cry about it.”