The first sign something’s wrong isn’t dramatic.
It’s paperwork.
I’m posted outside Lab C when one of the techs swears under his breath.
“She refused intake again,” he mutters, scrolling through a tablet. “Third morning in a row.”
Inside the containment unit, she’s seated near the center. No weaving. No slow mapping of the floor with her fingers. Just still.
I noticed it too.
She’s been quieter the last few nights. Slower. Turning away from food trays.
I told myself it was stress.
Testing’s increased lately.
Could’ve been that.
“Run the panel again,” the second tech says.
They disappear into the adjoining lab.
I stay where I am.
Inside the unit, she turns her head slightly toward the corridor.
Not looking.
Listening.
Her tail moves once, slow.
She hears the difference in footsteps.
The tension.
Ten minutes later, the lab door slides open.
Both techs step out.
And they look pale.
“…That’s not right,” the younger one says.
“What.”
“Run reproductive markers.”
I push off the wall before I realize I’ve moved.
“Why?” I ask evenly.
“Protocol.”
It isn’t.
They go back inside.
The hum of equipment rises.
When the door opens again, the senior tech doesn’t hesitate.
“She’s pregnant.”
The word lands hard in the corridor.
I don’t move.
Don’t blink.
Pregnant.
My pulse hits once against my ribs.
Impossible.
Except it isn’t.
“How?” I ask, because that’s what a guard would say.
“That’s what we’re verifying,” he replies. “This shouldn’t be biologically consistent.”
Inside the unit, she’s gone still.
She can’t see their faces.
But she hears the shift.
Extra boots.
Faster breathing.
The containment door opens.
Medical staff step inside.
Clinical. Efficient.
She stiffens when the air changes.
Her fingers press against the floor.
Mapping vibration.
Searching.
For me.
I don’t step forward.
If I do, they’ll notice.
One tech kneels beside her.
“We’re conducting additional diagnostics.”
She doesn’t answer.
She rarely does with strangers.
Her head turns slightly toward where I’m standing.
She can’t see me.
But she knows I’m here.
Pregnant.
My girl.
My kid.
I force the thought down before it reaches my face.
“What’s the plan?” I ask evenly.
“Full panel. Genetic confirmation. Security audit.”
Security audit.
There it is.
This isn’t just biology.
It’s breach.
Access logs.
Camera blind spots.
Shift overlaps.
Every night I lingered too long.
Every time I adjusted equipment under maintenance pretense.
My jaw tightens.
Inside the glass, she remains seated while equipment is repositioned around her.
She doesn’t fight.
Doesn’t panic.
But she hears everything.
And she hears that I haven’t moved closer yet.
That’s what hurts.
The senior tech stands.
“It’s confirmed.”
Confirmed.
I'm a Dad
I nod once.
Professional.
Detached.
“Understood.”
They don’t ask if I knew.
Not yet.
They’re too busy processing the anomaly.
“Notify command,” the senior tech says.
My stomach drops.
Command means Quaritch.
And Quaritch means investigation.
Inside the unit, she’s perfectly still now.
The facility hum feels louder.
Heavier.
This isn’t just emotional risk anymore.
This is evidence.
They think it’s a breach.
They think someone “messed with the blind detainee.”
They don’t know it was choice.
They don’t know it was bond.
They definitely don’t know—
It was me.
I straighten my shoulders as the medical team exits to escalate.
Inside the glass, she tilts her head slightly toward my position.
She sits beneath the observation lights, white hair spilling over her shoulders in free form dreads, brighter against the sterile gray around her. It falls down her back like moonlight, untamed, stubborn. Her eyes are unfocused—milky, distant, unseeing—but steady. She tilts her head slightly at the hum of the room, mapping it the way she always does.
That’s my Girl.
Listening.
Always listening.
And as I turn toward the corridor, one thought settles hard in my chest:
They’re not just studying her anymore.
They’re going to study what we made.
And I won’t let them.