Mrs. Weasley stared at her son for a long time. Too long for a mother who was usually quick to take control of the situation.
"Say that again," she said softly. Too softly. "What did you just say?"
Sean stood stiffly in the hospital hallway. His face was hard, his eyes vacant—not because he didn't care, but because his mind had already jumped too far ahead.
"I'm going to make Moana miscarry," he repeated without hesitation. "That way, there won't be two victims. There will only be one story. The media will run out of fuel."
For a moment, the sounds of the hospital—nurses' footsteps, the creak of a cart, the hum of the AC—vanished. All that remained was Mrs. Weasley's heartbeat, which seemed to shift to the very edge of her own temples.
"You've truly lost your mind," she finally said, her voice trembling with restrained anger.
"You talk as if that pregnancy were just a number. As if that woman were just an object."
Sean looked away. "Mom, I'm trying to save everything."
