The Categorical Imperative

The fog clinging to the spires of Blackwood University was thick enough to taste—a soup of gray mist and the scent of damp, decaying ivy. It was the kind of New England autumn morning that demanded wool socks and strong tea.

Clara Vance stood in the foyer of their Victorian home, clutching a brown paper bag stained with grease from the local deli. Inside was a Reuben sandwich, extra sauerkraut, her husband’s favorite.

"Happy Anniversary," she whispered to herself, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror.

She looked exactly like what she was: a high school literature teacher. Sensible cardigan, hair in a messy bun, eyes that were a little too wide, a little too anxious. She had spent twenty years in the foster system learning to be invisible, and the last year learning how to be seen by exactly one man.

Adrian.

He had left before she woke up, leaving a package on her nightstand wrapped in brown paper and twine. Inside was a first edition of *Jane Eyre*. Not a reprint. A legitimate, 1847 Smith, Elder & Co. volume. It smelled of history and wealth. It was a gift that cost more than her annual salary, and when she texted him in shock, he had simply replied: *For my independent woman. I stole it from a dragon. Love, A.*

She assumed the dragon was an estate sale auctioneer.

Clara drove to the campus, navigating the winding roads with a smile she couldn't suppress. She parked near the Humanities building and walked up the stone steps.

The hallway to Adrian’s office was quiet. Most of the faculty were in the dining hall. Clara reached the heavy oak door labeled *Dr. Adrian Vance – Dept. of Philosophy*.

She raised her hand to knock, but the door was slightly ajar.

A voice drifted out. Adrian’s voice. It was his "lecture voice"—smooth, baritone, dripping with a charm that made undergraduates swoon and tenure committees weep.

"You see, Marco," Adrian was saying, "Kant argues that morality is derived from duty, not consequences. But I find myself leaning more towards a utilitarian approach today. The greatest good for the greatest number. In this case, the 'greatest number' is my wife, and the 'good' is your absence."

Clara frowned. Marco? She didn't know a grad student named Marco.

She pushed the door open. "Adrian, I brought—"

The words died in her throat.

The office was exactly as she knew it: walls lined with leather-bound books, a Persian rug, the smell of pipe tobacco.

But in the center of the room, a man was tied to a wooden chair with zip ties. He was weeping. His face was a ruin of bruises, and blood was dripping onto the pristine rug.

Adrian was sitting on the edge of his mahogany desk, legs crossed at the ankles. He was wearing his favorite tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches. In his right hand, he held a fountain pen. In his left, resting casually on his knee, was a pistol equipped with a suppressor.

Adrian looked up. He didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He smiled—that slow, devastating smile that had made Clara say "yes" three months after meeting him.

"Clara, darling," Adrian said, setting the gun down next to his stapler. "You're early."

The man in the chair whimpered. "Please... I won't tell him..."

"Quiet, Marco," Adrian chided gently, as if speaking to a student who had interrupted a reading. "Adults are talking."

Clara dropped the sandwich. The bag hit the floor with a wet thud. "Adrian? Who is... what is..."

"This?" Adrian gestured to the bloody man. "This is a teaching assistant. We’re conducting a theatrical demonstration on the fragility of the human condition. Very avant-garde."

"He's bleeding," Clara whispered, backing away.

"It's corn syrup," Adrian lied. He stood up, moving toward her with a fluid grace. He blocked her view of the man. He smelled of sandalwood and gun oil. "Darling, you look pale. Let's get you some air."

"He has a gun," the man in the chair sobbed. "Lady, run! He's crazy!"

Adrian sighed. He turned back to the man. "Marco, if you interrupt my anniversary lunch one more time, I will deduct points from your final grade. And by points, I mean kneecaps."

Adrian grabbed Clara’s arm. His grip was firm, grounding. "Walk with me, Clara. Now."

He guided her out of the office and pulled the door shut, locking it with a heavy click.