White.
That's the first thing I see.
Not morning light.
Not sunlight slipping through curtains.
Just white—too white, too clean, too bright.
My eyes flutter open slowly, lashes heavy, vision blurred like I've been dragged out of deep water. The ceiling swims above me, unfamiliar. Sterile. Endless. My head throbs faintly, a dull ache pulsing behind my temples.
Beep… beep…
The sound reaches me late, distant at first—then closer. Sharper.
I blink again.
Hospital.
The realization settles slowly, like frost creeping into my bones.
My hand feels strange. Heavy. I turn my head with effort and see the IV needle taped into my vein, clear fluid dripping steadily. A thin tube snakes away from me like proof I don't understand yet.
"…How…?"
My throat is dry. My voice barely exists.
Memories stumble back in fragments.
Cold bathroom tiles.
Pregnancy sticks scattered like evidence of a crime.
Black orchid scent wrapping around me.
Strong arms lifting me off the floor.
Rion.
