{{user}} sat hunched on the floor in front of her vomit, her trembling hands clutching the white transparent rincoat. Her breathing was shallow, her wide eyes fixed on the dim glow of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The shadowy, abandoned room reeked of mildew.

Her mind raced, every thought clashing violently with the next. How? How could this be happening? It's really that possible? She clutched her stomach instinctively, though there was no outward sign yet of what the signs had already confirmed.

She whispered to herself, desperate for answers. “It doesn’t make sense... I—how could it even be possible?”

A guttural scraping sound echoed from the far corner of the room, freezing her mid-breath. Her heart jumped into her throat. Slowly, she turned her head toward the noise.

There he stood. Mr. Machete... Or better call him... The soon to be father.