He Called Me Weak—Now He's On His Knees

3 AM. The pit bull on my surgery table was barely breathing. This dog was covered in wounds—whip marks, bite injuries, electrical burns. Its eyes held the kind of complete despair that comes from total betrayal by humans.

"Easy there, big guy." I pulled on rubber gloves and gently stroked its head. "I'm going to fix you up."

Familiar footsteps echoed from the doorway. Knox appeared, still wearing his black leather jacket, blood on his knuckles. The smell hit me—sweat, blood, and the corrupt stench of money from the underground fighting scene.

"Saving trash again?" He leaned against the doorframe, voice dripping with contempt.

I didn't look up, continuing to clean the wounds. "Life doesn't have a price tag, Knox."

A few seconds of silence. Then he stepped closer, his tone suddenly softening. "I know. That's why I love you."

Here we go again. One second calculating profit, the next claiming to love my compassion.

"You're home late," I said while suturing.

"Business stuff. Viktor had some trouble that needed handling."

Viktor. Knox's boss, the puppet master behind Miami's underground fighting circuit.

"What kind of trouble keeps you out till 3 AM?"

Knox didn't answer, just moved beside me to watch the dog. "Will it make it?"

"Yes." My voice came out firmer than expected. "It'll survive and learn to trust humans again."

Knox laughed, but it never reached his eyes. "You're always so optimistic."

"Because I have to believe life can be saved." I stripped off my gloves and finally looked at him. "Otherwise this world would be too hopeless."

Twelve hours later, Miami General Hospital. I'd been putting off this appointment for weeks, but the persistent fatigue and nagging back pain had finally driven me here.

At thirty-two, I told myself it was probably just stress from running the rescue center, but the exhaustion had been getting worse, and the dull ache between my shoulder blades never seemed to go away.

"I've been feeling unusually tired lately," I explained to Dr. Martinez during the initial consultation. "And there's this constant pain in my back that won't go away, even with rest."

She nodded, making notes. "How long has this been going on?"

"About six weeks. I thought it was just from lifting heavy dogs and working long hours, but..." I shrugged. "Something feels off."

After the physical examination and initial blood work, Dr. Martinez's expression grew concerned. "Your symptoms, combined with some abnormalities in your blood panel, suggest we need to run more comprehensive tests. I'd like to do an ultrasound and possibly a CT scan."

"Is something wrong?"

"Let's get the results first before jumping to conclusions."

Two hours later, she returned with a gentle smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Well, there is some good news. You're pregnant. About five weeks."

My hand instinctively moved to my stomach.

"However," her expression grew serious, "the scans revealed what's been causing your symptoms. There's a tumor on your pancreas. Late-stage pancreatic cancer that's already spread." Her voice was gentle but each word hit like a hammer. "I strongly recommend terminating the pregnancy immediately and starting chemotherapy."

"What if I choose to keep the baby?"

"Then you might have six months."

Six months. Those weeks of fatigue, the back pain I'd ignored—my body had been trying to tell me. Life was always this cruel—giving you the greatest hope while your body was already betraying you.

Evening. I sat in my living room staring at two reports. One said I was pregnant. The other said I was dying.

Knox came home looking exhausted, scraped knuckles, the usual "business" aftermath.

The moment he sat down, his phone buzzed. The screen showed "Raven." He quickly declined, but it rang again.

"Who's Raven?" I asked.

"Business partner." Too quick. "New investor."

I hid the cancer diagnosis under the couch cushion, keeping only the pregnancy report.

"Knox, I have a surprise. We're having a baby."

His expression shifted instantly—shock, confusion, and something that looked like... annoyance?

"You sure? Now?"

'Now? What kind of reaction is that?'

"Yes, now. We've been together two years."

Knox rubbed his temples. "This is... sudden."

The phone rang again. Still Raven. This time he didn't decline.

"I need to take this." He stepped onto the balcony.

I couldn't hear the words, but his tone was gentle. Much gentler than he'd just spoken to me.

Five minutes later he returned. "About the baby... we need to talk. The timing's wrong. Business is complicated right now..."

"Knox, we're talking about your child. Our child."

"I know. But you know the nature of my work. This isn't a good time for kids."

I stared at him, suddenly nauseous. "You don't want this baby."

Long silence.

"I didn't say that. Just that the timing's wrong."

His phone rang again—Viktor this time.

"I have to go. Emergency situation." Already grabbing his coat. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

The door slammed. I walked to the window and watched Knox's car head toward the port district.

Where Viktor's underground fighting circuit operated, along with God knows what other "business."

I returned to the couch and pulled out the cancer diagnosis.

Six months.

I sat in darkness, one hand on my stomach, the other gripping the diagnosis that would change everything.