The sterile white walls of the hospital gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. The faint beeping of machines and the soft murmur of nurses moving about were the only sounds that filled the air. In Room 309, the atmosphere was different—heavy, tense, as though the space itself held its breath.
Maya's hands gripped the edges of the bed, her body trembling as she fought through the contractions. She was alone, despite the birth of her child only moments away. The sharp pain of labor made her clutch the thin hospital sheets, and her mind, clouded with exhaustion and fear, raced. What was going to happen to her child?
She wasn't supposed to be here. Not like this.
Outside the room, two officers stood guard—one leaned against the wall, the other pacing with his arms crossed, eyes sharp. Maya's crime was notorious, her name whispered in prison hallways like a warning. The mother of an unborn child shouldn't be in a prison, but circumstances didn't care about such things. No one cared for her now, except for the authorities. Her baby would be taken away the moment he arrived—placed in the hands of strangers.
The door swung open with a soft click, and a nurse entered, her face serene but distant. Maya barely registered the woman's presence, too caught in the painful rhythm of her labor. The nurse moved to check the monitors, adjusting the IV drip and mumbling comforting words, though Maya wasn't sure if she was speaking to her or the baby. In that moment, there was no real comfort to be found.
A few moments later, the unmistakable cry of a newborn broke through the haze of Maya's thoughts. The child was born. He was here. Maya's heart fluttered as she watched the nurse wrap him in a thin, white blanket.
But there was no celebration.
The nurse quickly handed the baby to another person, a shadowed figure in the corner of the room. The man's face was concealed by a dark mask, his eyes cold and calculating. A police officer stood nearby, watching intently. The child, once warm in the arms of his mother, was taken immediately into the custody of the state.
As Maya lay there, her body still trembling from the ordeal, she felt something she couldn't quite describe—was it relief? Despair? Or simply the unbearable weight of what was about to happen? The officer, without a word, handed her a piece of paper, a formal document with the words Custody Transfer written across the top. There was no time to explain. No time to mourn. The child was taken away from her, and she was left with nothing but the cold, sterile room and the growing emptiness in her heart.
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Outside the hospital, in the dimly lit hallway, Enola Tim stood waiting.
Enola wasn't supposed to be here. They weren't supposed to have any connection to the child, but fate seemed to have a way of leading people into circumstances they weren't prepared for.
Enola had received a cryptic message hours earlier, a text with just one line: "You need to be there. The child needs you."
At first, Enola had thought it was some sort of scam, an elaborate prank. But something about the message felt real—urgent. And so, against their better judgment, they'd come.
The hallway was quiet except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Enola felt the tension in the air, the weight of something unspoken, something dangerous. They weren't sure why they were here, but as they walked down the hall, their heart raced. They knew this would change everything.
In front of Room 309, a nurse walked past them quickly, avoiding eye contact. The doors were closed, and there was no sign of anyone—no police officer, no detectives. It was as if the entire hospital had forgotten about the birth that had just occurred, the life that had entered the world, and the life that had been taken away. Enola stepped forward, pushing the door open just slightly, enough to see inside.
There, in the hands of an officer, lay the child. The baby, wrapped tightly in a blanket, seemed so small, so fragile. The officer's grip was firm but not gentle. And for reasons Enola couldn't explain, a deep sense of protectiveness washed over them.
But the baby wasn't alone. A dark figure stood in the corner, observing quietly—a man in a suit, his eyes piercing through the dim light. He spoke in low tones to the officer, but Enola couldn't hear the words. All they could focus on was the child—this innocent life that seemed so vulnerable.
A chill ran down their spine. This was more than just a birth. This was a beginning—of something much bigger, something darker.
As the officer left, the man turned, and their eyes met. A silent understanding passed between them. Enola wasn't sure if it was coincidence, fate, or something more sinister, but they knew the baby's future was now in their hands. For better or worse, they had a role to play in this child's life.
But at what cost?