The lump in the blood wasn’t just blood.
It was a child.
Tiny.
Still.
The skin already turning rigid under the freezing air, the color draining as frost began to creep across him.
His limbs were still curled in that fragile, newborn shape—except he hadn’t cried.
Hadn’t moved.
My chest seized.
Then my eyes caught something in her hand—her fingers, still clenched and stiff from the cold.
I reached for them, careful—terrified that if I moved too hard, I’d break her, snap what was left of her body like fragile ice.
Her grip resisted at first.
Then loosened slightly as I pried her fingers open.
Inside—
A folded piece of paper.
I unfolded it with shaking hands.
A medical record.
Stamped.
Dated.
Three weeks ago.
My eyes scanned the page faster and faster.
High-risk pregnancy. Preterm labor possible.
Absolute contraindications: extreme temperatures, physical stress, and cold exposure—especially in the third trimester.
The words slammed into me.
Again.
And again.
I’d thrown her into the one place she was explicitly forbidden to go.
The one place that could kill her... and the child she carries.
A sound tore from me—a broken roar of grief and rage, as the paper crumpled in my hand.
“Ciro—!” I barked, my voice raw. “Ambulance! Now! Get every fucking doctor we have!”
I didn’t wait for an answer.
