Sniping while breastfeeding

(muffles gun assembly sounds with baby cries)

Inside the nursing room of her townhouse on Manhattan's Upper East Side, Violette's Gucci nursing underwear flows with real-time weapons blueprint paper. She holds a Cartier diamond-encrusted bottle against her lips, a mixture of breast milk and antimatter fuel rippling quantum inside." Good girl, cry louder..." She gently shook the baby girl in her crib, and the vibrational frequency of the Christian Louboutin cradle was compiling the crying sound waves into 3D printing instructions for gun parts.

"Body temperature 36.8 degrees Celsius for assembly of Barrett M82," the smart diaper table's display popped up with ballistic calculations, and Violette projected Ethan's real-time positioning on the wall with a sippy cup encrusted with miniature rifled tubes. The baby girl suddenly coughs violently, spitting up petals of milk in the air to form a model of the molecular structure of the Swiss bank's underground vault-a quantum navigational map implanted with gene-editing technology.

Scarlett's mechanical remnants crashed through the bulletproof glass window, and Tesla's electric whip wrapped around the titanium bracket of the nursing chair, "The frequency of your milk rises reveals the sniper coordinates!" She flings an EMP net woven from fetal hair over the assembling barrel of the gun.Violette's Van Cleef & Arpels nursing bra suddenly shrinks, and the overflowing pads erupt into nanobots that instantly engulf the grid, melting Scarlett's mechanical uterus into the last line of support for the Dow Jones.

The breastfeeding alarm suddenly spikes at 3 a.m. as the waves of a baby girl's nocturnal cries shatter Louis Vuitton formula cans.Violette leaps for the safe on her Valentino studded slippers, the steel rings of her nursing bra popping out of the carbon-fiber sniper goggles. As she presses her nipple to the iris reader, the cabinet emerges with a plutonium-239 core frozen in umbilical cord blood-a legacy of quantum revenge left behind by Lucas.

"Thirteenth lactation complete, anti-material rifle 98.7% complete." The AI midwife's robotic hand handed over the hardened pacifier. The baby girl is suddenly quiet, her pupils reflecting the real-time surveillance feed from the copper bull on Wall St. Violette dips the barrel into the breastmilk at a constant temperature of 37 degrees Celsius, the cream plating a perfect parabola on the inside of the rifling-the trajectory terminating in the Van Cleef & Arpels cufflinks at Ethan's temple, which hid the last of his money-laundering evidence.

Violette was covering the magazine load with a nursing pillow when the Secret Service drone swarm crashed through the quantum shield. The baby girl's cries suddenly shifted to infrasound frequencies, and fifty drones crashed onto the Hermes carpet in response. She bites open the Tiffany Blue soother, the nanoscale depleted uranium armor-piercing round inside automatically slides into the chamber, and the shell of the pacifier displays a countdown: nine minutes and thirty seconds left until the Fed Chairman's temple is pierced.

"Sniper point wind speed corrected to account for air humidity changes triggered by rising milk." The smart steel ring of the nursing bra tightens, strangling the bloodied Nasdaq code on Violette's collarbone. As the crosshairs locked onto the porthole of Ethan's private jet, the baby girl suddenly excreted blockchain-encrypted feces-a jamming program implanted by Scarlett.Violette's old wound in her pregnant belly suddenly disintegrated, and amniotic fluid mixed with quantum blood lubricated the bolt.

"Farewell, dear creditor." She pulled the crushed diamond-encrusted trigger, the recoil shattering the bulletproof window. The bullet penetrated twelve layers of quantum shields and blossomed into a Van Cleef & Arpels four-leaf clover of blood at Ethan's temple. All the Wall Street monitors are synchronized to show slow-motion footage of his crash, and counterfeit bills minted from Violette's father's ashes float in the wreckage.

When the Secret Service breaks down the door, the only thing left in the nursing room is the self-rocking Christian Louboutin cradle. The baby girl's cries suddenly shifted to Chopin's Funeral March, shattering the glass of the New York Stock Exchange's dome. The breastmilk-stained anti-material rifle lies on a Hermes nursing pillow, and the diaper baked by the barrel's residual heat reveals the last line of the poem: when revenge becomes a genetic disease, we are all mothers carrying a deadly code.