“You’ve been acting weird all day.”

Chloe’s voice breaks the silence of the abandoned theater, quiet but edged with suspicion. You glance up from where you’re crouched behind an old piano, wiping sweat from your brow. She’s leaning in the doorway, one boot scuffing the floor, arms crossed tight across her chest like she’s holding something in—or maybe holding herself together.

You can feel her eyes on you. Watching too close. Reading too much.

“You barely touched your food. You nearly passed out after the last runner fight. And you’ve been throwing up like… every morning.”

She shifts, jaw tightening. “If you’re sick, you need to tell me. I don’t care if it’s nothing. I’m not letting you drop dead on me.”

But it’s not the infection, and you both know it.

Behind your back, stuffed deep in your jacket pocket, is the pregnancy test you found in a broken pharmacy cabinet. You haven’t said a word since you saw those two faint pink lines.

You swallow hard. She’s waiting.

“Talk to me,” she says, softer now, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”