Silence.
Not the poetic kind. Not the soft cinematic hush.
No.
This is the kind of silence that follows a scream so loud, it leaves your ears ringing for days.
I stare at him.
“You’re... joking.”
“I lack the protocol for humor.”
My breath stutters in my chest.
“No. No. That’s not—that’s not possible.”
“The data was verified three times.”
“Impossible,” I snap. “I—I was on the Hulk forweeks. There were no supplies. No... noconditions. My body was—my stress levels?—”
Reflector doesn’t blink. Can’t. But I swear he’slookingat me differently now.
“The child is viable,” he says. “Healthy. Genetic sequencing reveals it is not fully human.”
My stomach drops.
Not fully human.
I press my hands to my midsection.
Nothing. Just soft skin. Slight swell. Maybe psychosomatic. Maybe real.
Garokk.
Oh stars.
Garokk.
My mouth opens, then closes.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
I slide off the bed, legs trembling.
I barely make it to the mirror.
My reflection is a stranger. Hair dull, skin pale, eyes sunken and rimmed red. I touch my stomach again, this time more carefully.
He’s in there.
A piece of him.
A piece ofus.
I sink to my knees.
