Those eyes.
Storm-gray. Burning.
Alive.
They locked onto mine with something raw.
Hatred.
She didn’t speak at first.
Just stared.
Breathing hard.
I lowered the gun slowly.
My hands were shaking.
For the first time in years.
I holstered it without breaking eye contact.
Without looking away from her.
She tried to push herself up.
Her arms trembled violently.
She barely got halfway before collapsing back against the wall with a weak, pained exhale.
One hand instinctively moved to her stomach—
But there was nothing there.
Empty. Deflated.
Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric, like she was trying to hold onto something that was already gone.
Her voice came out hoarse.
“Where...” she rasped, struggling to breathe through the words, “where is my baby?”
A pause.
Her voice cracked harder.
“Is he dead?”
The question hit harder than anything I had faced that night.
I swallowed.
Once.
Then forced the words out.
“He’s alive.”
