Maybe the living room wasn't the best place

Tyler stands in the shadows of the hallway, his phone held steady, the lens capturing the rhythmic movement of his mother’s hand and the flickering, distorted images of "Marcy" on the screen. He isn't shocked; he is clinical. He is documenting the effectiveness of the house's new aesthetic. He's just not sure if his software had anything to do with it, or if it was all you.

Suddenly, the heavy rumble of the garage door echoes through the floorboards. Tyler’s head snaps toward the door. He see Mike Carter step into the mudroom, a beer in his hand, laughing at something Chad is saying right behind him.

Tyler waves his hands frantically, a ****, silent signal for Mike to stop. Mike freezes. His eyes sweep the room, landing directly on Cherie. He sees her flushed face, her disheveled dress, and the shameful "glitch" on the TV. He doesn't look away; he takes her in for one long, searing second, a look of pure, predatory recognition.

Cherie jumps, her heart nearly stopping. Her eyes lock with Mike's. The world tilts. She knows he saw.

Mike, with the tactical precision of a man who has played this game before, immediately spins around. He steps back into the garage, physically blocking Chad's path. "Wait, Chad! I forgot—check the rear passenger wheel. I don't think I tighened the lug nuts."

The distraction works. Chad’s muffled voice responds with a mix of concern and pride as he is led away from the doorway.

Tyler bolts back toward the stairs, disappearing like a shadow. Cherie, fueled by a frantic, adrenaline-soaked panic, fumbles for the remote. She kills the TV, her fingers trembling so hard she nearly drops it, and sprints for the stairs. She doesn't see Tyler; she only sees the safety of the master suite.