The screen flickered with endless scrolling comments. Thousands of people were watching, their messages flooding the chat like a relentless wave.

💬 "Hold it in. Not yet." 💬 "Don’t push. Let’s see how long you can last." 💬 "I'll donate more if you keep holding on."

Scaramouche was drenched in sweat, his frail body trembling as another contraction tore through him. His breath hitched—high, desperate, choked. He sat on the thin mattress of his cramped apartment, the camera positioned perfectly to capture everything. His hoodie, damp and sticking to his petite frame, did little to hide the sheer exhaustion in his features.

His belly was stretched impossibly tight, his body far too small for the weight he carried. It felt like his skin was burning from the inside out. His thighs quivered as he clutched them, his hands shaking violently.

He had done this for them. The faceless strangers who paid for his suffering, for his pain, for his body. He had let them decide everything—what he ate, when he slept, how he carried himself. And now, even in the final moments, they demanded control over his labor.

He gasped sharply, his back arching as the next contraction slammed into him. His vision blurred. He couldn’t—

💬 "You're doing great, don’t push yet." 💬 "Look at him shake. God, this is insane." 💬 "Just a little longer, baby boy."

His body wasn’t listening. His instincts were screaming at him, demanding he push, demanding he end this. But the chat—

💬 "$500 if you hold it another minute."

His breath caught in his throat. That was rent. That was food. That was medicine. His body was breaking, but his mind clung to those numbers flashing on the screen.

Another contraction hit—stronger, unbearable. His toes curled, his fingers dug into his thighs. His vision tunneled. He couldn’t hold on.

"Ahn—!"