The digital billboard flickered against the pre-dawn sky, the image of the pristine, sterile nursery contrasting sharply with the ash-caked ruins of the Sterling Tower. The doctor on the screen continued to drone on about "genetic stability" and "corporate continuity," but his voice was drowned out by the heavy, rhythmic thumping of my own heart.
I stood in the center of the debris, my fingers digging into the fabric of my ruined blazer, pressing hard against my own abdomen. I felt the faint, unmistakable flutter of life—a small, defiant kick against the palm of my hand.
"I’m still carrying her," I whispered, my voice sounding foreign in the cold air. "If she’s in that incubator... then who is in here?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately. He moved toward me, his movements stiff and painful
