I press my forehead to my knees, not to cry, but tobreathe. To ground myself in this moment before it runs off without me.
The future used to be a story I told the cameras.
Now it’s something Icarry.
I name him that night.
No doctors. No ceremony. No blinking notifications asking for birth plan uploads or registered partners.
Just me.
And the stars.
And the echo of a voice I’ll never hear again.
“Pyramus,” I say into the dark, tasting the name like it’s sacred. “That’s who you’ll be.”
It’s an old story. A myth, really—tragic and poetic and way too dramatic for a kid who hasn’t even kicked yet. But it fits.
Pyramus. The boy who loved through walls.
The boy who was born from a story that never should’ve happened.
The boy who’ll live even when legends die.
I say it again, softer this time.
“Pyramus.”
My son.
The next morning,I request the full prenatal package.
Not because I want the fanfare, but because if I’m doing this, I’m doing itright. No hidden files. No back-alley treatments. No anonymous surrogacy solutions.
This is mine.
All of it.
The Novarian medical AI tries to refer me to a fertility specialist.
“Your genetic pairing is... nonstandard,” it says. “Reproductive anomalies are expected. The fetus?—”
“Thebaby,” I snap.
The silence that follows is telling.
The AI corrects itself. “The baby shows unusual growth markers. Bone density exceeds baseline projections. There is also a mild temperature fluctuation.”
“Because he’s part Vakutan,” I say flatly. “You want a scan? Run one. But don’t treat him like a problem.”
The AI does as it’s told.
The results come in hours later. I already know what they’ll say.
Strong.
Alive.
