A few days passed, but that evening still wouldn’t leave my mind. Mark’s words sounded convincing, yet the more often I replayed that scene in my memory, the clearer I understood: it wasn’t ketchup.

Ketchup has a sweet smell of tomatoes and vinegar. But the smell in the bathroom had been different — heavy, metallic. And the color… too thick, too dark.

I tried to convince myself that I was just imagining things. Maybe he really had cut himself and didn’t want to scare me. Maybe he had some health problems. That thought wouldn’t leave me alone. So after a couple of days I began to watch my husband more carefully.

Mark seemed to live an ordinary life. Calm, composed, even too calm. Sometimes he returned home late, silently took a shower and went to bed.

Sometimes he stepped onto the balcony to talk on the phone. No panic, no anxiety. If it hadn’t been for that red water, I would never have suspected anything.

But one night I saw him quietly get dressed and leave the apartment, thinking I was asleep.

Everything inside me went cold.

I threw on a jacket and carefully followed him outside. He walked confidently, quickly, without looking back. After several blocks he turned into a dark alley between warehouse buildings.

I stopped behind the corner and looked out.

There was a woman there. Young. It seemed they had just met — she was saying something nervously, while Mark stood opposite her completely calm. His posture was relaxed, almost indifferent.

He listened to her as if they were discussing the weather.

Then he took a step forward.

I saw a short, cold movement of his hand. No struggle, no burst of anger. Everything happened quickly and almost silently.

The woman didn’t even have time to scream.

She slowly collapsed onto the asphalt.

And Mark… simply stood beside her, looking at her for a few seconds, completely calm. No panic. No hurry. Then just as calmly he wiped his hand on the fabric and looked around, as if checking whether any traces remained.

I stood in the darkness, not breathing.

And in that moment I was truly afraid.

Because it wasn’t a quarrel. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a burst of rage.

He did it as if he had done it before.

And then I finally understood: that blood in the bathroom was only one of the traces of what had really been happening.

It turned out that all those years I had been living next to a person I didn’t know at all…