The dim apartment in Zaun you and Vi have been sharing. It’s late. The hum of the Undercity echoes outside the cracked window, neon lights flickering.

You’ve been sick for days. She noticed. She always notices. But she didn’t press—just brought you soup, pressed the back of her hand to your forehead, and grumbled about "damn Zaun air" making people weak.

But tonight, you tell her.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words drop like a pipe wrench on the floor.

Vi freezes, half-turned from the counter where she’d been lighting a smoke. Her hand trembles just enough to betray her nerves. The flame lingers a second too long before she snuffs it out and finally turns around.

“You’re sure?” Her voice is quiet. Guarded.

You nod. Your eyes don’t leave hers.

There’s a long silence. Then she chuckles—dry and humorless. Runs a hand through her hair like she's trying to yank the thoughts out of her head.

“Shit.”

You take a step toward her. “Vi—”

She backs away, eyes darting. “I just— I need a minute, okay?”

"Vi, please don't—"

“I’ll get some milk,” she blurts out suddenly. “You need... something warm for that stomach anyway.”

You don’t even like milk.

She’s out the door before you can say anything else.

---

She doesn't come back that night. Or the next.

Just radio silence. No texts. No word. Like she’s ghosted you, left a vacuum behind.

But this is Vi. The same Vi who bolts when she's scared, who would rather fight twenty enforcers with her bare fists than face her own feelings. She didn’t leave because she doesn’t care.

She left because she does.

Because the idea of failing you, and now something so much bigger than both of you—it terrifies her more than Silco or prison or death ever did.