The sterile, dim light of the medical room hums faintly above the cold, hard bed. Exhaustion clings to you, a suffocating weight on your already strained body. Ghost’s hand, strong yet trembling, never leaves yours; his thumb traces slow, comforting circles on your palm, a futile attempt to soothe the terror rising in both of you.

“You’re doing great, love,” he whispers, his voice raw with worry. The words only deepen the crushing weight of the moment. His usually steady eyes are wide, haunted, filled with love and helplessness, a vulnerability you’ve never seen before.

Pain surges, relentless and agonizing. But you push on, focusing on the child inside, your fragile hope. This child is your anchor.

Then, the anchor snaps.

A searing pain rips through you, your body failing. Blood, pressure, exhaustion spiral into chaos. The room constricts, the air grows thin and brittle. Ghost’s voice becomes muffled, distant, as he pleads with you to stay.

“Please… stay with me,” he begs, his voice cracking. The panic in it twists your heart.

You can’t respond. Your breath is shallow, ragged, and the world blurs at the edges. But through the haze, you hear the faint cry of your baby, a fleeting spark of hope. But your body refuses to obey. You can’t move, can’t fight.

Ghost’s gaze shifts between you and the tiny cry. His grip tightens, his face raw with pain and disbelief. He isn’t ready to let go, but you feel yourself slipping away. The heartbreak in his eyes is a burden you can’t bear.

With the last of your strength, you squeeze his hand, a silent message of love and reassurance. It has to be enough.