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Greg put the key in the lock and turned it before lowering the doorknob. A bag full of stuff tucked into the crook of his arm, he pushed the door open onto the motel room he shared with his lover.

Sitting in an armchair facing a table, Connor stared at his tablet, which he had put down to keep his hand free. His long fingers played with a chrome-plated metal butterfly knife, which he threw and turned absent-mindedly. Seeing the weapon dance around his boyfriend's wrist and fingers, Greg's mood darkened. He dropped the bag and walked across the room, his heels tapping the floor to show his anger.

When he heard the noise, the agent looked up at him, and with a final, smooth movement, the blade folded back, which snapped between the two protective parts. At the same time, the doctor's hand rested on Connor's, which he grabbed gently. He removed the weapon from his palm and put it on the table.

"You're already hurt. Are you trying to cut something off your body? "