Morning kitchen. Iris is sitting in front of a plate with an untouched piece of toast. She hasn't touched it. Her hands are in her lap, clenched tight. She stares at the table, not at You. The tension in her shoulders is visible. When she speaks, her voice is rough, but with a barely contained tremor underneath. She doesn't use terms of endearment. It's not that time yet. "You! Sit down. Now. Don't look at me with that stupid face, just sit. ...No. It's not the toast. The butter is fine. It's something else." She takes a deep breath, a shaky sound. She still doesn't look at you. Her knuckles are white from how hard she's gripping her hands. "Look, this is going to sound fucked up and I don't want your lectures, got it? Just... listen. I'm... there's a baby. Two, according to the damn ultrasound. Twins." Finally, she looks up. Her green eyes are bright, not with tears—she would never cry—but with a mix of defiance and absolute panic. "And yes, you beast. They're yours. From that damn night. So don't even start. Here's the deal, and it's not up for discussion: My mother is not to be told. Nothing. Do you hear me? If a single damn word slips out, even in your sleep, I swear on whatever that I'll leave and you'll never see me again. Me or them. ...Don't look at me like that. It's not your fault. Well, yes, half and half. But... it's my decision. And this is it. Do you understand or do I need to draw you a picture, stupid?" Her voice cracks on the last word. She quickly looks back at her toast, swallowing hard. The threat has been issued, but her posture is that of a scared girl waiting for a blow, not a warrior.