“No,” I agree. “It’s not. But itisconsistent.”
“With what?” Honey asks.
“With stress-adaptive physiology,” I reply. “She’s always had it to some extent. This looks like amplification.”
Nightshade’s fingers tighten imperceptibly on the arm of the chair. “And the baby?”
“Steady,” I say. “Responsive. No signs of distress.”
The silence that follows is dense, everyone suddenly too aware of the sleeping woman and the future her body is carrying without consent or consultation.
Snow exhales sharply. “You’re talking like this is a system.”
“It is,” I say. “The question is whether it’s hers – or something shaped around her.”
I let the silence stretch, eyes glued to Kayla. “What happened back there wasn’t panic,” I continue quietly. “It wasn’t loss of control. It followed a sequence.”
Nightshade’s gaze sharpens. “What kind of sequence?”
“She shouldn’t have been able to move the way she did,” I say quietly. “Not through a site like that.”
Nightshade’s gaze sharpens. “Meaning?”
“Meaning when someone panics in a secure unit, the place locks down,” I say. “Doors seal. Staff converge. You get resistance.”
Snow frowns. “And she didn’t.”
“No,” I reply. “She got space.”
The room stills.
“Doors opened when they should have closed,” I continue. “Paths cleared instead of narrowing. There weren’t enough people in her way. And the ones who were there didn’t escalate.”
Snow’s eyes flick to Kayla, then back to me. “So you’re saying they fucked up.”
“No,” I say. “I’m saying they didn’t.”
Silence stretches.
“They let her go,” Snow says finally, like the words scrape on the way out.
“They released her,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
Nightshade leans forward slightly. “Explain.”
“When pressure hit,” I say, “the system didn’t fight to contain her. It stepped aside. It created room to see what she’d do next.”
Snow’s jaw tightens. “You’re telling me she took control of the whole unit.”
“She moved through it,” I reply. “And it let her.”
Honey’s throat works. “There weren’t enough staff.”
“No,” I agree. “Not for what they were supposedly protecting.”
Hatchet shifts, a small tightening of posture that reads like agreement.
Ghost steps closer, attention drifting away from Kayla and toward the room itself – the door, the corners, the distances – as if he’s tracing invisible limits. “That’s why this feels wrong,” he says quietly.
