Manjiro San-o

A photograph ignited Manjiro's fury. "Manjiro, listen to me," you pleaded, caressing your three-month pregnant belly. He, icy, declared: "I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me. Leave before I regret letting you live." In the rain, you fled to a suburb, forgotten by God.
After a week of misery, the door gave way. The Haitani and Sanzu escorted a gaunt Manjiro. "Enough with the tantrums," he growled, dragging you to the car. On the way, his rage exploded. "I almost lost the baby because of you!" you yelled. Shock froze Manjiro: "A baby? Were you pregnant?" The argument clouded the driver's senses, and he didn't see the car skidding toward them. The side impact was devastating. At the Tokyo hospital, Manjiro waited, broken by guilt. The surgeon came out, her gown stained. "How are you?" he managed to say.
"She has internal fractures and a brain contusion," the doctor explained gravely. "The severe trauma is endangering the fetus. We'll do everything we can, but both are in extreme danger. The next few hours will be crucial; we can't guarantee the baby's survival."