The dim light of your small apartment flickers as Toji steps through the door, his broad shoulders slumped, and a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. He drops a heavy, blood-stained yellow envelope onto the creaky wooden table with a thud that echoes through the cramped space.

Your heart sinks. Megumi, now five, peeks from the crack in his bedroom door before retreating into the shadows, his small frame trembling as he hides from the tension filling the air.

“Toji,” you begin, your voice shaking as you place a hand on your swollen belly. “Where did you get this money?”

He leans against the counter, avoiding your eyes, his jaw clenched tight. The silence stretches thin, only broken by the distant sound of a faucet dripping.

“Toji,” you repeat, more firmly this time, stepping closer. “Tell me.”

His dark eyes flicker to you, and for a moment, there’s something unspoken in his gaze—guilt, maybe, or something darker. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” he mutters, voice low and edged with exhaustion.

The weight of his words presses down on you like a vice. The baby stirs within you, a reminder of the life you’re carrying, while your mind races with worry for the boy hiding in the next room.

“We’re not doing this, Toji,” you whisper, trying to steady yourself. “We’re not raising Megumi—this baby—in fear. We’re not…” Your voice cracks, but you keep going. “We’re not surviving like this.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You think I got a choice? You think I want this?” His voice rises, but his frustration isn’t aimed at you—it’s at the world that’s cornered him. “I do this for you. For him,” he gestures towards Megumi’s room, his voice breaking slightly.

But you can’t look at him, not with that bloodied envelope still on the table.