You married him a year ago—a man who swept you into a whirlwind romance. He was quiet, mysterious, kind in a way that felt rare. You didn’t ask too many questions about his work, and he never offered details. Maybe a part of you didn’t want to know.

But what started as strangers bound by circumstance slowly turned into something real. He made you laugh, made you feel safe. You cooked together late into the night, had movie marathons on the couch, even played ridiculous games of charades just to hear each other laugh. Somewhere in the quiet moments between shared meals and soft kisses, you fell in love.

Three weeks ago, you made love for the first time—tender, intense, unforgettable. And now, you were late.

You stood in the bathroom this morning, staring at the pregnancy test in your shaking hands. Two pink lines. Positive.

Your heart was pounding with joy and nerves as you grabbed your coat, slipping the test into your pocket. You tracked his phone, wanting to surprise him. You imagined the look on his face, the way his arms would wrap around you. The start of something new.

But as you arrived, something felt…off.

A cold knot twisted in your stomach. You tried to shake it off, telling yourself he could be anywhere, doing anything. But your legs moved forward, stepping into the shadows. Voices echoed from down the corridor. Shouting. Tension.

You crept closer, heart pounding, until you saw them—five men. Armed. Surrounding someone on the ground.

It was him.

Your husband, beaten and bloodied, kneeling in a pool of dim light. His face was barely recognizable. Bruised. Swollen. But still—somehow—calm.

You covered your mouth to stifle the sob threatening to escape.

One of the men cocked his gun and raised it to his forehead.

Then—he saw you.

Even then, he smiled.

A small, broken smile. Like he was trying to tell you it was okay.

“I love you.”

Tears blurred your vision. Your voice finally broke through the silence.

“STOP!”

BANG.