Confirmed pregnancy.
Victor read it once, then again, slower the second time, as if careful reading might somehow correct what he was seeing. It didn’t. The words stayed exactly where they were, stubbornly factual, indifferent to how impossible they seemed.
Pregnant.
In a high-security block where inmates were isolated, monitored, and kept under strict protocols that allowed for no unauthorized contact—especially not the kind that could result in something like this.
For a long moment, Victor didn’t move. The office around him—the muted hum of the air conditioning, the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor, the low murmur of voices beyond the door—faded into the background as his attention narrowed entirely onto the document in his hands. There are certain rules in institutions like this, unspoken but absolute, and one of them is that nothing happens without leaving a trace. Not if the system is working the way it’s supposed to.
Which meant, if this was real—and the medical report was clear, precise, verified—then something in that system had failed.
