The pain hit like a train, sharp and rhythmic, but you’d convinced yourself it was something else — cramps, stress, maybe a hormone crash. It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

You’d stayed back from Kagami’s practice, curled up in the apartment with a blanket and your usual discomfort. Nothing new… until it was.

Now, you’re on the bathroom floor, trembling, heart hammering against your ribs. You can barely breathe. The world feels distant and jagged. And between your legs, cradled on a towel, lies something that makes your brain short-circuit.

A baby.

Tiny. Fragile. Mysterious. Still wrapped in a shimmering, transparent sac — their body curled like a question mark, limbs twitching slightly. They haven’t cried. Haven’t made a sound. Because they can’t. The sac never broke.

Your water never broke.

You didn’t even know you were pregnant.

Your chest seizes with panic, but your instincts shove you forward. With shaking hands, you grab your phone — you don’t even remember picking it up — and dial emergency services. You can barely speak when the line clicks.

“You’re doing okay. I know this is a shock, but you’ve done the hardest part. The baby is still in the amniotic sac — that’s why your water didn’t break. We need to rupture the membrane so they can breathe, alright?”

You look down. The sac glistens under the bathroom light, surreal and terrifying. The baby moves gently inside, lips parting, eyes still closed.

“Do you have anything clean? Scissors, even tweezers? If not, use your fingers — pinch or tear gently near the baby’s face. It’s thin. Just like wet tissue paper. You can do this.”

Your hands hover. You’re shaking. There’s no Kagami here. No backup. Just you… and the impossibility of what you’re holding.