In the year 2032, the city of New Cascadia sprawled like a bruise across the Pacific Northwest, its skyline a jagged mix of gleaming corporate towers and crumbling tenements. The cost of living had spiraled into a relentless beast, devouring families whole. Housing prices had tripled in a decade, childcare was a luxury, and food—real food, not the synthetic slop peddled by megacorporations like SynthoCorp—cost more than most could afford. For Ben and Lila Harper, a young couple with two children, the dream of stability was slipping through their fingers like sand.

Ben, 32, worked as a data curator for SynthoCorp, a job that paid just enough to keep their heads above water but demanded 60-hour weeks. Lila, 30, had been a graphic designer before the twins, Mia and Leo, were born. Now, she pieced together freelance gigs while managing the chaos of toddlerhood. Their one-bedroom apartment in a decaying high-rise was a pressure cooker—$3,200 a month for 600 square feet, with walls so thin they could hear their neighbors’ arguments. Childcare ate up half of Lila’s income, and groceries seemed to double in price every month. The twins, three years old, were blissfully unaware, their laughter a fleeting reprieve from the constant math running through their parents’ heads: How much longer can we do this?

Before the numbers became a cage, life had been different. Ben remembered a time, not so long ago, when their apartment had felt like a cozy nest, not a trap. He’d come home from work to find Lila on the floor, laughing as the twins crawled over her, their tiny hands pulling at her hair. He’d scoop up Leo, burying his face in the child’s neck and inhaling the scent of baby powder and innocence. Lila would catch his eye over Mia’s head, her smile a silent promise that everything, no matter how hard, was worth it. Their love had been a quiet, steady thing, built on shared jokes, late-night talks, and the small, domestic rituals of their life. He remembered the day they bought the twins' first pair of real, leather shoes, not the recycled synthetic ones everyone else bought. It felt like a triumph, a sign they were winning.

One night, after the twins were asleep, Ben and Lila sat at their wobbly kitchen table, a stack of overdue bills between them. The holographic display on their budgeting app glowed red, projecting a deficit that grew with each passing week. Lila’s hands trembled as she poured cheap synthetic wine into chipped mugs.

“We’re drowning, Ben,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We can’t keep up. The twins need new shoes, the rent’s due, and the daycare threatened to drop us if we miss another payment.”

Ben rubbed his temples, his eyes bloodshot from staring at screens all day. “I’m already pulling overtime. There’s nothing left to cut.”

Lila stared at the flickering light above the table, an idea forming in the haze of exhaustion. “What if… what if we didn’t have to do this alone?”

Ben frowned. “What do you mean?”

“A throuple,” she said, the word landing like a stone. “I read about it on the feeds. People are doing it—bringing a third person into their household to share costs. Rent, bills, childcare. It’s not just about romance; it’s practical. Another income could save us.”

Ben leaned back, his chair creaking. “You’re serious? Inviting a stranger to live with us? To raise our kids?”

Lila’s gaze hardened. “Riskier than losing everything? We’re not talking about love. We’re talking about survival.”

The idea gnawed at Ben over the next week. He saw the strain in Lila’s eyes, the way she flinched every time a new bill pinged their inbox. He saw it in himself, too—the way his hands shook when he checked their bank account, the nightmares of the twins crying in a shelter. So, reluctantly, he agreed to try.

They downloaded Triad, an app that promised “harmonious partnerships for the modern age.” The interface was sleek, gamified, with profiles boasting income levels, credit scores, and “household compatibility” ratings. They swiped through candidates, filtering for someone local, stable, and willing to commit to a shared household. After days of scrolling, they found him: Marcus Vale.

Marcus was 34, a freelance AI technician with a steady income from remote contracts. His profile was polished—clean-cut, warm smile, a bio that emphasized reliability and a “team player” mentality. His financials were solid: $85,000 a year, no debt, and a willingness to contribute 40% of his income to household expenses. The app’s algorithm gave him a 92% compatibility score with the Harpers.

They met Marcus at a coffee shop in New Cascadia’s gentrified district, a place where even a small latte cost $8. He was taller than Ben expected, with sharp cheekbones and a calm, measured way of speaking. He wore a tailored jacket, a stark contrast to Ben’s wrinkled hoodie and Lila’s frayed sweater. The twins, strapped into a double stroller, giggled as Marcus made faces at them.

“I know this is unconventional,” Marcus said, stirring his coffee. “But I’ve seen how tough it is out there. I’ve been living alone, and it’s… isolating. Expensive, too. I like the idea of a shared life—helping each other, you know?”

Lila nodded, warming to his earnestness. “That’s exactly what we’re looking for. Someone to share the load.”

Ben was quieter, studying Marcus. There was something about the man’s easy confidence that put him on edge, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. Still, Marcus’s financials checked out, and his references—former roommates and a colleague—praised his reliability. After a week of background checks and late-night debates, Ben and Lila invited Marcus to move in.

The arrangement was practical, not romantic. Marcus took the pull-out couch in the living room, paying $1,200 a month toward rent and utilities. He chipped in for groceries and offered to cook three nights a week, his meals a welcome upgrade from the Harpers’ usual instant noodles. He was good with the twins, too—patiently reading them stories or distracting them during tantrums. The financial pressure eased slightly; for the first time in months, they paid the rent on time.

But cracks began to show. Lila noticed Marcus and Ben spending more time together—late-night talks in the kitchen, hushed conversations that stopped when she entered. She told herself it was just two men bonding, but a new, cold feeling of being left out began to grow in the pit of her stomach. Ben seemed different, too—less stressed but distracted, his gaze lingering on Marcus in ways Lila couldn’t quite read. Her own exhaustion and Ben's newfound comfort created a chasm between them.

One evening, Lila walked into the kitchen to find Ben and Marcus seated at the table, a bottle of beer between them. They were laughing quietly, Marcus’s hand resting lightly on Ben’s arm. Ben pulled his arm away quickly, his face flushing, but not before Lila had seen it. The air in the small room grew thick with a silence that felt heavier than any argument. It wasn’t an overt act, but it was enough to trigger a deep, gut-wrenching paranoia. Lila’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t angry about the possibility of attraction—they had agreed the throuple was financial, not romantic—but the secrecy and the feeling of being an outsider stung. Why hide it?

Her paranoia deepened. She started watching Marcus more closely—his late-night “work calls,” the way he’d slip out of the apartment without explanation. She checked his Triad profile again, digging into the comments section. One review, buried under glowing praise, caught her eye: “Great guy, but secretive. Left without much notice.”

Lila’s fear morphed into something colder. She wasn’t just losing Ben’s affection—she was losing control of her family. Unbeknownst to Lila, Ben and Marcus were indeed hiding something, but it wasn’t just a relationship. In the quiet hours, when Lila slept, they’d begun to plan. Marcus had planted the seed months ago, during one of their late-night talks. “She’s holding you back, Ben,” he’d whispered. “You’re the one keeping this family afloat. Imagine if it was just us—the kids, you, me. We could make it work. No more fighting over bills, no more stress.”

Ben had resisted at first, horrified. But Marcus was persuasive, his voice a siren’s call. “Think about the twins. They need stability. Lila’s cracking under the pressure—she’s not herself anymore. What if she leaves? Takes the kids? We can’t let that happen.”

The idea took root, fed by Ben’s exhaustion and Marcus’s subtle manipulations. They didn’t call it murder—not at first. It was “an accident,” a way to “simplify things.” Marcus had a plan: a hiking trip, a remote trail in the Cascadia Range. Lila loved hiking, and the twins could stay with a neighbor. A fall, a cliff, a tragedy. No one would question it. New Cascadia’s police were too overstretched to investigate accidents thoroughly.

The plan was set for a crisp October weekend. Lila, unaware, was thrilled at the idea of a day outdoors. “It’ll be like old times,” she said, smiling at Ben. He nodded, guilt gnawing at him, but Marcus’s voice echoed in his mind: For the kids. For us.

The trail was steep, winding through dense forest to a lookout point with a sheer drop. Lila led the way, her backpack bouncing as she chatted about the twins’ latest antics. Ben lagged behind, Marcus at his side, their hands brushing once, briefly. Lila didn’t notice.

At the lookout, the view was breathtaking—jagged peaks under a gray sky, the city a distant smudge. Lila leaned close to the edge, snapping photos. Marcus glanced at Ben, a silent question. Ben’s heart pounded. He thought of the twins, of the bills, of a life without Lila’s constant worry. He nodded.

Marcus moved first, casual, offering to take a picture of Lila against the cliff. “Step back a bit,” he said, gesturing. Lila obliged, her trust absolute. Ben’s throat tightened as Marcus’s hand grazed her shoulder, a nudge disguised as a stumble. Lila gasped, her foot slipping. She teetered, arms flailing, and then she was gone, a scream cut short by the rocks below.

The men stood frozen, the wind howling. Ben’s knees buckled, but Marcus gripped his arm. “It’s done,” he whispered. “We’re free.”

They called for help, playing the part of distraught hikers. The authorities ruled it an accident—another casualty of the Cascadia Range’s treacherous trails. The twins, too young to understand, clung to Ben and Marcus, their new family unit.

Back in the apartment, life continued, but the air was heavy. Marcus was attentive, cooking elaborate meals, tucking the twins into bed. Ben tried to feel relief, but Lila’s absence was a ghost. Her clothes still hung in the closet, her laugh echoed in the twins’ voices. At night, he dreamt of her scream.

Then came the glitch. The cheap security camera Lila had installed, forgotten in the chaos, had been recording. Not the hike, of course, but the weeks leading up to it—late-night whispers, Marcus’s hand on Ben’s, coded glances. Ben found the footage one night, searching for a lost file on Lila’s old laptop. His blood ran cold as he watched himself nod to Marcus in the living room, their voices low: “The cliff. It’s perfect.”

He deleted the footage, but the damage was done. The camera had been cloud-synced, a feature Lila had activated. Somewhere, in New Cascadia’s labyrinthine data centers, the files lived on. Ben didn’t know if anyone would ever see them, but the possibility haunted him. Marcus, sensing his unease, grew possessive, his touches lingering, his eyes searching. “We’re in this together,” he’d say, but it sounded like a threat.

The twins started asking for Mommy. Ben lied, his voice cracking. Marcus was smoother, spinning stories of Lila’s “adventure in the stars.” But the apartment felt wrong, the walls closing in. One night, Ben woke to find Marcus gone, his phone buzzing with a new message from “J”: “You did it. I’m proud. Come to me.”

Ben’s hands shook as he read it. Who was J? Another lover? Another plan? He looked at the twins, asleep in their cribs, and realized he didn’t know Marcus at all. The man he’d killed for, the man he’d trusted, was a stranger.

The next morning, a ping came from the budgeting app. Their account was overdrawn—Marcus had drained it, transferring thousands to an unknown account. Ben searched the apartment, but Marcus’s belongings were gone. He’d left a note on the counter: “You’ll be fine. Take care of the kids.”

As the fear and grief and rage battled for control, Ben’s mind fixated on a single, terrifying thought: the cloud footage. He had to delete it. He had to find the password. He sat in front of Lila’s laptop, the camera company’s login page glowing mockingly on the screen. He tried every password he could think of: his own birthday, the twins’ birthdays, their old apartment address, their wedding date. Nothing. His long-held inferiority complex, a quiet demon he'd always fought, resurfaced with a vengeance. He had always believed Lila was too good for him—smarter, more creative, more beautiful. The existence of this secret password was, to him, the final, undeniable proof. It must be a secret she had kept from him, a reference to an old crush, a digital key to a part of her life he was never meant to access.

He never found the password. It would remain a cruel mystery, a silent testimony to a secret he believed she had kept. But as he frantically searched, rummaging through old files and discarding a pile of crumpled bills and receipts, the reader saw a tiny detail Ben missed. Tucked away on a discarded Post-it note, a single word was scribbled: "TakeMeBack123".

A week later, the knock came. The police, two plain-clothed detectives, stood at his door. They were polite but their eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

“Mr. Harper?” the taller one said, holding up an official ID. “We’re investigating your wife’s passing. We have some follow-up questions.”

Ben’s stomach knotted. He invited them in. They sat at the same wobbly kitchen table where he and Lila had made their final, desperate plan.

“We understand your wife had recently purchased a home security camera,” the shorter detective said, his voice flat. “We’ve been in contact with the company. It seems the device was cloud-synced, but we can’t access the files. Do you happen to know the account password?”

Ben felt the blood drain from his face. The question hung in the air, a final, horrifying sentence. He didn't know. He had destroyed his life and his family for a secret he was convinced was a betrayal, but the only betrayal was his own. The camera's footage, the digital ghost of his crime, would haunt him forever, a silent accusation he couldn't erase.