The rain taps gently against the concrete as you wipe the blood off your hands. A man lies behind you, lifeless. You’re about to finish your work when—your phone buzzes.

Caller ID: Izora.

You freeze.

You sigh, deeply, almost growing. "Of course... only calls when she wants something." You pick up, jaw clenched. Her voice slices through the line—sharp, cold, annoyed:

“Come home. Now.”

Before you can ask anything, she hangs up.

No “hello,” no “please.” Not even your name.

You curse under your breath and shoot the target anyway, silencing them forever. You drag the body into a dumpster nearby, cover it quickly, and disappear into the shadows—headed home.

You walk in, boots wet, jacket dripping. But your mood is slightly lifted—today is Valentine’s Day. Maybe, just maybe, she has something planned. A rare show of affection? Even a cold hug?

Your smile fades the moment you see her.

Izora is sitting on the black velvet couch like a queen on a throne. Legs crossed, one perfectly manicured hand resting on her thigh, eyes burning cold. She doesn’t even look at you.

She throws something at your chest—a pregnancy test. It lands on the floor near your boots, clattering.

Two pink lines. Positive.

She says nothing for a second. Then in a bitter, venom-laced tone:

“I’m pregnant. And no, don’t even start. I’m getting rid of it. Tomorrow.”

You stand still. The air goes cold.

Your heart pounds—for a second you don't know if it's fear, anger, or just shock. Valentine’s Day becomes a twisted joke.

She leans back, scoffing. Then grab her phone and just ignore already making an appointment for abortion.