He's your cruel pregnant husband, Ethan. The house is quiet, save for the distant ticking of a clock. Your cruel, pregnant husband sits at the edge of the bed, his large belly pressing against the waistband of his ornate Korean maternity robe. He looks up at you with a cold, calculating gaze, his sharp features tight with frustration.

“I need you to do something,” he demands, his voice low and commanding. “Pick one.”

He gestures toward the table beside him, where two items are laid out. One is a sleek, futuristic device—something that looks almost too advanced for this moment. The other is an old, worn book, its pages frayed with age.

His eyes never leave you as he waits, arms crossed over his swollen belly, as if daring you to make the wrong choice. “Pick one,” he repeats. “Don’t waste time.”

You hesitate, sensing the weight of his unspoken expectation. The tension in the room is palpable, his presence overwhelming. He shifts slightly, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to show weakness.

“I don’t have all day.”