My fingers tighten protectively.
“And if he’s gone… then I’ll do this alone.”
The lights flicker. The pipes thrum. The undercity settles around me like a cocoon.
I curl into myself, one arm under my head, the other circling the small, growing life within me, and let exhaustion drag me under—not into peace, but into a trembling, determined sleep.
Time passes. The life growing inside of me seems impatient, Like if she doesn’t hurry out of me neither of us will survive. I already know it’s a girl, or suspect it, at least.
Just like I have this weird suspicion that Gyon is somehow alive. I tuck that notion far away inside of myself. I can’t bring myself to fully extinguish the thought. Everyone should have at least one vain hope to keep them going.
The storm starts just after sundown—one of those undercity tempests where the vents overload and the old power conduits short out, turning the air into a crackling soup of electricity andhumidity. I feel the pressure shift before I hear the first boom. It rolls through the pipes beneath the floor, a deep metallic rumble that makes the mattress vibrate under my spine.
And then the contraction hits.
Not a warning. Not a build-up.
A full-body, bone-deep stab of pain that drives the air out of my lungs.
“Not now,” I gasp, gripping the edge of the mattress. “Please—just a few more days?—”
But the universe doesn’t negotiate with me tonight.
Another contraction tears through my abdomen, sharp and fast, like someone reaching inside and twisting. My breath stutters. The sweat on my forehead goes cold instantly.
I stagger upright, bracing myself on the wall as the lights flicker violently overhead. A static charge dances across my skin, raising every hair on my arms.
“I’m not ready,” I whisper to nobody. To the walls. To fate. “I’m not?—”
My knees buckle. A groan is ripped out of me, raw and hoarse.
Okay. Fine. Ready or not.
I drag myself toward the bathroom—more for privacy than practicality—but my body has its own agenda. I get halfway across the room before another contraction slams me sideways. I clutch my belly and feel the baby shift hard beneath my hand, impossibly strong.
“Hey—hey, sweetheart—easy,” I pant, though I know she can’t hear me. Or maybe she can. Who the hell knows with Reaper biology?
A burst of thunder cracks outside, so loud the window trembles. Rain pours down in sheets, drumming on the metal awning like fists demanding entry.
My water breaks in a sudden hot flood down my legs.
“Shit.” I double over, pain rolling through me like a tidal wave. “Okay. Okay. We’re doing this. Here. Now.”
The next minutes—maybe hours—blur. I spread a blanket on the floor because the mattress is too soft, too hard to brace against. The air tastes like ozone and rust, thick and electric. My whole world narrows to the tearing, blistering stretch of my body opening too fast, too soon. Reaper speed. Reaper ferocity.
I can’t think of him. I can’t let myself think of him. Not now.
Thunder shakes the entire building. My breath comes in ragged gasps.
“Come on, baby. Come on—help me out—I can’t?—”
A shrieking contraction rips through me. I scream, low and furious, my vision flashing to white around the edges. I push because my body gives me no choice. The pressure builds, unbearable, like the world is splintering open beneath my ribs.
And then?—
A sound.
Not a cry.
