At 2:13 in the morning, a pregnant woman called 911 and whispered that her husband was going to kill her.

The steel door creaked, the lock turning with a sharp, heavy clack that rattled through the basement. The door swung open slowly, revealing Arthur standing in the threshold.

In his left hand, he held the double-barreled shotgun, resting casually against his thigh. In his right hand, he carried a heavy gallon jug filled with yellowish liquid that smelled strongly of gasoline. His eyes swept over the scene—the bloody drapes, the flashing monitor screens, and the paramedics huddled around the cot.

"What's taking so long?" Arthur demanded, his voice raspy and devoid of warmth. "I heard shouting."

"She’s in full labor!" Rowan barked without turning around, maintaining her position at the end of the bed. Her hands were already slick with blood as she prepared to assist the delivery. "She has a partial placental abruption. If you step any closer or interrupt us now, this baby will suffocate in the birth canal before it ever takes a breath!"

Arthur paused at the threshold, his dark eyes narrowing. The smell of gasoline filled the narrow hallway behind him. "You have ten minutes. Deliver the baby, tie the cord, and set the child on the table by the door."

"And what about her?" Dax challenged, stepping subtly into Arthur’s line of sight, masking Rowan and Kira behind his wide frame. "She needs an immediate blood transfusion!"

"She's done her part," Arthur said coldly, his face completely detached from humanity. "She was meant to replace what was taken from me years ago. Now her child will fulfill that purpose."

"You monster," Kira hissed, her knuckles white as she gripped the syringe of medication.

Arthur raised the barrel of the shotgun half an inch. "Ten minutes. Or I end this right now and take what's left." He stepped back into the corridor, leaving the steel door pulled almost shut, but unlocked this time—he needed to hear when the baby cried.

"Ignore him," Rowan commanded softly, her hands deftly feeling the baby's head as it began to crown. "Wren, look at me! Deep breath. The baby is right there. I can see dark hair. Big push, right now!"

Wren let out a piercing scream, a sound born of nineteen years of confinement, abuse, and stolen identity. She threw her chin to her chest, her hands gripping the steel frame of the cot so hard the metal groaned under her fingers. Her abdominal muscles tightened into iron bands.

"That's it! That's it!" Dax encouraged, leaning over her, supporting her shoulders. "Keep pushing, Wren! You're doing amazing! Hold it... hold it..."

"Head is through!" Rowan announced, her fingers working with rapid, practiced precision to check for the umbilical cord. "Cord is clear! No nuchal cord! One more push for the shoulders, Wren! Give me one more!"

Wren gasped for air, her skin pale as chalk, sweat pouring down her neck. She looked up at the dimly lit ceiling, gathering every remaining shred of strength from the depths of her soul. She thought of the mother she had never known—the woman whose arms had been emptied nineteen years ago in a dark hospital room. She thought of the child inside her, waiting to enter a world that had tried to bury them both.

With a final, desperate cry, Wren pushed.

With a slick splash, the baby slipped into Rowan's waiting hands.

For two agonizing seconds, the basement fell dead silent. The newborn baby lay still in Rowan’s gloved hands—pale, blue, and unmoving, covered in blood and vernix.

"He's not breathing!" Kira choked out.

Rowan acted instantly. She laid the baby on a sterile towel on Wren's abdomen, grabbed the rubber bulb syringe, and inserted it into the tiny newborn’s mouth, clearing the airway of blood and fluid. She squeezed, suctioned, then did the nostrils. Dax immediately began rubbing the infant’s tiny back vigorously with a warm towel, stimulating the neurological system.

"Come on, little one," Rowan prayed silently, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Come on..."

A tiny cough echoed through the concrete room.

Then, a high-pitched, sharp, triumphant cry erupted from the baby’s lungs.

WAAAAAH! WAAAAAH!

"It's a boy," Rowan breathed, a sudden, fierce tear slipping past her eyelashes. She clamped and cut the umbilical cord with rapid efficiency, wrapping the screaming newborn tightly in a dry, warm blanket. "He's alive, Wren. You have a son."

Wren wept, tears flowing uncontrollably down her face as Rowan placed the warm, squirming bundle onto her chest. Wren cupped the back of her son's tiny head, resting her forehead against his. "My baby... my baby..."

"Kira, Pitocin now!" Rowan ordered.

Kira pushed the uterine contractor medication into the IV line to stop the hemorrhage, while Dax stepped quietly away from the bed, his eyes fixed on the cracked steel door.

Through the crack in the door, Arthur’s shadowed face appeared. He saw the crying baby in Wren's arms. A terrifying, twisted smile spread across his thin face.