(Joseph's POV)
The report arrives at 6:42 a.m.
I know the exact time because I stare at it for a long while, the digits burning themselves into my memory as if precision might soften what follows. The city outside my window is still half-asleep, lights dim, streets hushed. For a moment—just a moment—I consider closing my laptop and pretending I didn't see the notification.
But truth doesn't wait for courage.
I open the file.
The language is clinical. Neutral. Carefully stripped of any emotion that might contaminate the findings. No accusations. No dramatics. Just facts arranged into sentences that end with periods—final, undeniable.
Pregnancy cannot be medically confirmed.
Submitted documentation does not align with standard prenatal protocols.
Previously provided materials are invalid.
I read the lines once. Twice. A third time, slower, as if pace might change meaning.
It doesn't.
