The fluorescent lights hum like dying insects above me. My body is shattered, stitched together with thread and morphine, but I’m smiling—because I did it. I gave him a son.\n\nThen I hear his voice through the cracked door, low and tender: 'Don’t worry, she’ll never know. We’ll raise ours together. That thing in her arms? It’s just leverage.'\n\nMy breath stops. The baby—so small, so quiet—stirs against my chest. His eyes open. Not mine. Not mine at all.\n\nThe nurse said there was a mix-up after the emergency C-section. One baby lost. One surviving.\n\nBut now I realize—it wasn’t an accident.\n\nI clutch the infant closer, tears burning hot. He thinks I’m broken. Helpless.\n\nHe doesn’t know I remember everything. The IV drip adjusted at midnight. The way the midwife looked away. The second ultrasound they never logged.\n\nThey took my child. Left me theirs.\n\nAnd now, I have three choices: press the emergency call button, walk out before they stop me, or pretend I heard nothing—and become the monster they fear.