Chapter 7
That Saturday, my handsome friend met the wife again.
I followed from a distance and filmed everything.
A little later, I sent the husband the video along with the exact address.
He arrived furious, bringing two men with him.
He stormed into the room like a bomb going off.
My friend saw it coming. He pulled out pepper spray—the same beautiful invention that had served me so well—and blasted all three of them before they could do much more than shout.
Meanwhile, my female friend arrived with two police officers not far behind.
I brought them upstairs.
When the cops stepped into the wrecked room and saw the husband swinging, the wife screaming, the place in ruins, the situation was obvious enough. Domestic chaos, trespassing, violence. They hauled the husband upright and informed him he was looking at serious trouble for breaking in and attacking people.
He was still half-blind from the spray, blinking and swearing and trying to understand what was happening.
Then my female friend, just to make sure the knife twisted properly, played the video for the wife too.
That was when the whole thing truly exploded.
The wife lunged at her husband.
The husband started roaring back.
The room dissolved into screaming, accusations, grabbing, shoving, pure madness.
And I leaned in the doorway watching the whole thing like a man admiring fireworks he’d built himself.
Three days later, my female friend went to the police and admitted she had overreacted and didn’t want to pursue things further. The husband was eventually released.
I waited at home.
I knew what would happen next.
A marriage like that, already rotten to the core, doesn’t survive humiliation piled on top of betrayal piled on top of public disgrace.
Sure enough, the night he came back, their apartment erupted.
Crashes.
Shouting.
Things breaking.
The son crying.
Plates smashing.
Furniture going over.
The whole building came out into the hallway this time, not because anyone wanted to help, but because nobody was scared of them anymore.
They had lost that power.
The fight went on for nearly two hours.
Finally, the husband staggered out. His face was covered in fresh scratches and blood. Inside, the wife sat on the floor clutching their son, hair a mess, face bruised, looking like a storm had passed through and chosen her as its center.
A month later, they moved out quietly.
No speeches.
No revenge.
No comeback.
They just left.
And nobody in the building ever saw them again.