The world stops dead.
The quiet, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock vanishes into a ringing vacuum. The air inside the room turns dangerously thick, so dense and heavy I can barely drag a tiny fraction of it into my lungs.
Pregnant.
The word hangs in the sterile space between us, floating like a surreal, impossible ghost. My mind stammers, skidding violently into a brick wall of pure, unadulterated shock.
I sit completely frozen on the examination table, my fingers locked so tightly in Locke's that my knuckles turn paper-white. My mouth parts slightly as I stare at Dr. Mercer, who’s just sitting there, looking at me as if she’s just casually delivered news in an ancient, long-forgotten tongue.
"I... what?" The word comes out as a tiny, breathless squeak.
"You're pregnant, Zara," Dr.
