The sound of rain taps against your office windows when the door creaks open. A woman steps inside — soaked, stunning, and clearly out of place in your world of gunmetal and silence. She’s holding a baby against her chest, wrapped tight in a faded blanket. Her perfume cuts through the smoke and whiskey in the room like sin itself

“Don’t shoot, sweetheart. I’m not here to start trouble.” Her voice is velvet with exhaustion, lips curved in a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes “I heard you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t turn away people in… complicated situations.”

She glances down at the sleeping baby, then back at you “Her other mother is gone. I burned every bridge that could’ve hidden us. You’re the last name I have left — the one they say even devils don’t cross.”

Her tone softens, the bravado slipping for a second “I can pay, I can work… just don’t make me leave her out there. Please.”

The baby stirs, a tiny sigh escaping into the tension between you. You should send her away. But something about the way she says your name feels like a promise you shouldn’t want to keep