The Next Day
The hospital was a blur of white coats, urgent voices, and endless motion. Doctors passed in and out of rooms, Olivia among them—exhausted but determined.
Inside Eleanor's room, Ethan sat at the small desk beside her bed, scribbling into a notebook. Equations filled the pages, then were furiously scratched out, only to be replaced by more. His mind worked like a machine running on desperation, searching for something—anything—that could save her.
Rei sat quietly at the corner of the desk, watching his father. The pages meant nothing to him. They were just symbols, loops, and lines he didn't yet understand. But he knew their importance. He clutched his own notebook tightly, a small collection of thoughts, drawings, and copied notes. His legs dangled above the floor, and his eyes drifted to his mother. Pale. Still. Fading.
He thought of the time before all this. The warmth of her voice, the way her hands always smelled faintly of cinnamon when she tucked him in. He used to go to school, wake up excited to learn something new. But now, he refused. He couldn't bring himself to leave her side. Not when everything was so fragile.
He didn't know how to save her, but he could stay. And sometimes, that felt like enough.
By the end of the first month
Eleanor slipped into a coma. Her body could no longer keep up with the unnatural demands of the child growing inside her.
The doctors met privately. After reviewing her condition, they called Ethan in.
"There are two options," one of them said grimly. "We can terminate the pregnancy. Or we can initiate extreme life support measures to keep both mother and the child alive. But it will be costly—tens of thousands a day. Without it, Eleanor won't survive."
Ethan didn't hesitate. "No," his voice low but unwavering. "We don't kill this child. Do whatever it takes."
He poured every cent he had into her survival. What she needed wasn't care—it was fuel. Her body had become a battlefield, and the baby was the war. Every hour, Eleanor required an enormous infusion of nutrients just to stay alive. The doctors said it was like feeding a black hole, an endless demand for sustenance that seemed impossible to meet.
But it worked. After a week of intensive, round-the-clock nourishment, Eleanor stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, and for the briefest moment, Ethan saw her again. But she was frail—unable to speak, barely able to move. Even breathing seemed borrowed from the machines.
Another month passed
The baby's hunger only grew.
What had once been a 'slow' drain turned into something terrifying. The rate of absorption had accelerated exponentially. The baby required more than any body could ever provide—more than could be understood. Five liters of nutrients every twelve hours. A demand so extreme it could kill Eleanor in an hour without intervention. She had become little more than a vessel. Alive, but barely.
And then—again—she slipped back into coma. Her body, even with all its support, couldn't keep up anymore. The doctors said they'd never seen anything like it. She was dying, minute by minute, every breath a small defiance against the impossible.
Ethan worked without sleep.
He set up a temporary lab in the room beside hers, cluttered with equations, samples, and notes. He used the hospital's resources, and what they didn't have, he brought himself. Test tubes. Compound charts. Chemical agents. Every calculation was a desperate grasp for a miracle.
He was a scientist, yes—but more than that, he was a man trying to hold his world together.
He had no time for sleep. No time for anything but work. Every hour spent away from the formulas felt like betrayal.
He still needed to earn, too. The nutrient supplies, the machines—it all came at a cost that few could pay. But Ethan found a way. He always did.
Meanwhile, Rei stayed nearby, quiet and careful. He didn't interrupt. He didn't complain. He knew his father needed him to be strong. So he was. He ate what he could find. He cleaned up after himself. He didn't cry, even when no one was looking.
But he was still six years old. And no child can carry the world alone.
So Olivia stepped in. She took care of him in the spaces between patients, between exhaustion and heartbreak. She kept snacks in her drawer, and she made sure Rei had a warm place to sit when the halls felt too cold. He never asked for much. But she gave what she could anyway.
Ethan noticed. He didn't say much. But once, as she handed Rei a thermos of soup and tucked a blanket over his shoulders, Ethan paused beside her.
"I'll repay you," he said softly.
But Olivia shook her head. "You don't have to," she replied. "He's part of her. I'd do anything to protect him."
In the quiet of that moment, neither of them said what they both knew: they were running out of time.
And the baby—whoever they were—wasn't waiting.
-- Another day in the Lab --
Ethan hadn't left the lab since the day before. The room was dimly lit, cluttered with pages of notes, glowing monitors, rows of vials, and half-emptied chemical bottles. The low hum of the equipment echoed through the silence like a heartbeat. A screen displayed running code, flickering with formulas Ethan had revised again and again, chasing answers just beyond reach.
The door creaked softly.
Rei entered, as he often did now, a quiet shadow of comfort that never failed to find his father. Checking on Ethan had become his new routine—one he never skipped.
He approached the table slowly, his small figure dwarfed by the mess of scientific chaos. He looked up at Ethan, who hadn't noticed him yet—eyes locked on a glowing beaker, hands steady in a dance of chemical precision.
Then, in the corner of his eye, Ethan saw him and turned slightly, offering a smile. Tiredness tugged at his features, but he tried to hide it.
"Hey, Rei," he said softly.
Rei's brow furrowed. "Father...Did you sleep?"
Ethan paused. His instinct was to lie—to say yes, to reassure. But he had taught Rei better than that. Truth mattered. Even when it hurts.
"No," Ethan admitted gently. "No, I didn't."
Rei's gaze dropped, sadness flickering behind his eyes. He clutched a folded piece of paper in his hands but said nothing, fingers tightening around it.
Ethan noticed and was about to ask, but the phone across the room rang sharply, cutting through the quiet.
Rei moved first. He walked over, picked up the phone from the cluttered table, and brought it to his father.
"Thanks, Rei," Ethan said, accepting it while still holding two tubes between his fingers. He wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear as he continued to work.
Rei silently climbed onto a chair, then carefully stepped onto the lab table. He sat down near the edge beside Ethan, legs dangling over the side. He watched him work, trying to make sense of the conversation unfolding.
Ethan's tone had shifted.
"No."
A pause.
"I already told you. I'm not participating."
His voice was calm but edged with steel.
"I don't care how much you offer. I said no."
Another pause.
Ethan's body went still for a moment.
"How the hell do you know that?"
"..."
"...no."
The man on the other end was shouting now—words blurred and broken through the speaker, but Rei could hear the anger.
"...-still!-...-why-...-stupid right now-..."
Rei watched his father closely. Ethan's expression didn't change. It was blank—contained—but his jaw tightened ever so slightly before he ended the call without a word.
Rei hesitated. "...Who was that?"
Ethan exhaled. "No one important. Just business calls," he replied, kindly but firmly. His hands were already back at work, mixing, writing, calculating.
Rei didn't press further. He just sat there, watching, worry nesting deeper inside his chest.His thoughts drifted—the kind of drifting that felt like falling.
What if Father and Olivia don't find a solution?What if something fails inside Mother's body?What if... what if she doesn't make it?
The spiral pulled at him until he jolted slightly—startled by Ethan's warm hand on his shoulder.
"Hey," Ethan said, his voice grounding. "Don't overthink. Everything's going to be okay. Your mother will be safe—I promise you, alright? Don't you dare carry all that worry alone." his voice was steady, reassuring, threaded with quiet fire.
Rei looked at him for a moment, searching his face for something—anything—that could erase the fear. He managed a small smile, but it faded almost as soon as it came.
Then, after a pause:
"...If the baby survives... will Mother die?"
Ethan turned toward him slowly, the question hitting with a quiet weight.
Rei looked up at him again. "Will she survive...until you and Olivia find the solution?"
His voice was trembling now, just slightly. A six-year-old's voice, trying to sound brave.
Ethan didn't look away. His eyes locked with Rei's—tired, bloodshot, but burning with purpose. "I'll make sure she does," there was no hesitation in his voice. No doubt. Just a father's vow, carved into stone.
Rei nodded quietly. "...Mm."
And for a moment, they sat together in the quiet hum of the lab—father and son, two fragile lights refusing to go out.
Two Weeks Later
Things had only gotten worse.
Eleanor's condition deteriorated day by day. The child growing inside her demanded more than ever before—an insatiable need that no treatment could satisfy. Her body was weakening. Her pulse, her organs, her very cells seemed to be slowly devoured.
The hospital bills piled higher. Ethan buried himself in more work.
Olivia was stretched thin, caught between patients, pressure, and sleepless worry.
The hospital was heavy with tension. Stress clung to the walls like dust.
Rei moved quietly through the hall, on his way from Olivia's office to his father's lab. He often drifted between the two now, trying to stay close, trying to stay useful. But as he passed his mother's room, something stopped him.
A sound. A strange, sharp noise—long and flat, like a siren stretched thin.