Marco had always believed he understood pressure.
He had negotiated land disputes that could have turned violent, stared down men twice his size without blinking, buried family members while holding everyone else together, and carried the silent responsibility of being the one others leaned on when things threatened to fall apart. Pressure, to him, had always been something external — a storm you faced head-on.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for the quiet terror of a dim ultrasound room.
The lights were low, intentionally softened so the screen would glow brighter. Machines hummed with clinical indifference, their steady rhythm completely detached from the chaos building inside his chest. The faint antiseptic smell clung to the air, sharp and sterile, making the space
