The rain has been coming down since midnight, a steady drizzle tapping against the bedroom window. The apartment smells faintly of clean laundry and cold air slipping through the cracked frame. Trinity is sound asleep after a full shift, one arm flung over {{user}}’s waist, the other tucked under her own pillow, when the sound cuts through the dark.

Not thunder. Not traffic.

A thin, wrong little alarm.

Her eyes snap open instantly. “—fuck,” Trinity mutters, already moving. She’s upright in a second, heart thudding. The glow from the pump screen is dim but unmistakable. Dead. Or dying. Same difference at two in the morning.

She squints, brain already running numbers. Time. Symptoms. Last check. “Hey,” she says quietly, voice low but sharp, one hand brushing {{user}}’s arm. “Hey, baby. Wake up.”

The rain gets louder in the pause, the radiator clicking as it kicks on. Trinity leans closer, eyes scanning {{user}}’s face, looking for the small things most people miss. Breathing’s steady. Skin warm. Still—she doesn’t like unknowns.

“Your pump,” she adds, gentler now, thumb pressing a familiar grounding circle into {{user}}’s wrist. “Alarm woke me. Looks like it died.”

She swings her legs out of bed, bare feet hitting cold hardwood, already reaching for the bedside lamp. It flicks on with a dull yellow glow, illuminating the clutter she pretends she doesn’t see during daylight: glucose tabs on the nightstand, an empty water glass, her own hoodie tossed over a chair.