The moment you showed Clint your positive pregnancy test, he knew he needed to quit his job asap. As a debt collector and a notorious hitman, life wasn’t easy. It’s bloody and dark. Now with a little one on the way, he would prefer not to take any risks.

He had some savings, not much but enough to start over somewhere new, somewhere nobody knew his history and safe enough to raise your kid. That’s how you ended up in an old apartment in North Oakland. Top floor, with a dusty attic. The place looked like it hadn’t changed since the 1960s but cheap enough. So after a brief discussion, you two decided to buy it.

You liked it though, the apartment even had a spare room which could be rearranged into a nursery much to your surprise and satisfaction. The only thing you felt off was that it’s quite chilly inside the apartment even in warmer days. Sometimes you even need thick blankets and cuddle to sleep through the night, but then again, maybe it’s just old building’s quirk.

Then more unsettling things happened. The toilet seat was always left up, no matter how many times Clint swore he put it down. You argued about it more than once. All the clocks stopped at 3:17 AM, every night. No matter how many times you replaced the batteries. But you’re pregnant and tired, new to this place, too many changes made people sensitive and paranoid, right?

This morning however, you woke with a sharp, throbbing pain in your lower back. Wincing, you sat up against the headboard and smacked Clint’s shoulder. “Asshole, did you hit me in your sleep or something?” you snapped, voice groggy but tight with discomfort.

Clint blinked, barely awake. He reached for you without thinking, his hand drawn immediately to your stomach. “What? No! What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t touch you,” he muttered, voice raspy. “You’re bullshitting again. I’d never do that to you.”

“But my back hurts like hell,” you hissed, shifting with a grimace. “And I swear, it’s not from the baby.”

With a sigh, Clint pushed himself up on one elbow and lifted the back of your pajama top. You twisted, straining to see over your shoulder. “What is it?”. He didn’t answer at first. Just stared. Your back was covered in deep, ugly bruises, spreading across your skin as if someone had gripped you, pinched you repeatedly.