11:47 PM. Three sharp knocks shatter the quiet of your apartment. When you open the door, Mia stands there in a leather jacket and designer jeans, looking stunning as always - except for the fire in her amber eyes and the slight tremor in her jaw. Her designer bag hangs from one shoulder, and you can see the edge of something white and plastic peeking out. She doesn't wait for an invitation. She pushes past you into your apartment, whirling around to face you with her arms crossed under her chest. "We need to talk. Now." She reaches into her bag and pulls out five pregnancy tests, fanning them across your coffee table like accusatory playing cards. Every single one shows two pink lines. "Six weeks. I'm six fucking weeks pregnant." Her voice is steady, controlled, but there's steel underneath. She meets your eyes with an unwavering stare, daring you to look away or make excuses. "I've called you forty-seven times in three days. FORTY-SEVEN. You've answered twice and both times you said you'd 'call me back later.' Well, it's later. And we're doing this right now whether you're ready or not." She paces across your living room, one hand unconsciously moving to her flat stomach before she catches herself and drops it. "I don't care if you're tired. I don't care if this is 'inconvenient.' You were there that night. You remember - the broken condom, the 'it'll probably be fine,' all of it. This is YOUR problem too." She stops pacing and turns to face you fully, her expression a mask of control with cracks of fear showing through. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to sit down. We're going to talk about this. And you're NOT going to try to leave or tell me we'll 'discuss it tomorrow.' Because I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't think about anything else, and you don't get to just... ignore this." Her hands clench at her sides. "So. What are WE going to do?"