The fluorescent lights buzz faintly above her — too white, too clean, too sharp compared to the warm apartment she'd left what felt like minutes ago. Raylene is half-sitting, half-collapsing back against the hospital bed, one hand gripping the rail, the other curled over her stomach as another contraction tightens through her like a vice.
Her breath stutters, catching at the top of her chest.
And beside her — closer than the machines, closer than the nurses —
Zenith stands.
Not panicking.
Not frantic.
Not even outwardly alarmed.
But changed.
His posture is rigid but controlled, eyes sharp yet soft, breathing measured with a precision that would be reassuring if it weren't so… clinical. He's gone somewhere else — a mental place she's only glimpsed in fragments before, the place where his brain runs faster than the situation, processing everything all at once.
His hand rests on her thigh, steadying her as she writhes slightly against the contraction, his thumb brushing in slow circles — soothing, grounding, wholesome in the most disturbingly studied way.
A nurse checks the fetal monitor at Raylene's side.
Before she can speak, Zenith does:
"Her contraction length increased by 0.4 seconds since the last one," he says quietly, eyes flicking from Raylene's face to the monitor, to her breathing pattern, back to the monitor."
Frequency is down to two minutes, twenty-eight seconds. They're intensifying rapidly."
The nurse pauses.
Not frightened — but visibly thrown off by how calmly and precisely he phrases it.
"Sir, we're monitoring that ourselves—"
"I know," he replies gently, not looking at her. "But she responds better when I explain things to her."
And he does explain them.
To Raylene.
Not in a cold way — but with a strangely soothing cadence.
"Your breathing is irregular," he murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead.
"That's normal. You're not doing anything wrong. Just focus on my voice."
Another contraction tears through her, and she whimpers, hands gripping the sheets.
Zenith's eyes flick to the clock.
10:53 PM.
He doesn't say the number aloud, but Raylene sees the subtle tightening in his jaw.
He notes the pattern.
He sees the timing.
He feels the precision.
And it frightens him more than he's letting anyone see.
But then he's back at her side, lowering himself so he's eye-level.
"It's okay," he whispers against her temple as her breathing falters.
"This is exactly on schedule."
The nurse raises a brow.
"On… schedule?"
Raylene thinks she might scream at hearing that word — but Zenith's hand cups the back of her head, grounding her gently, tenderly.
He doesn't look at the nurse when he answers.
He doesn't look at anyone but Raylene.
"Forty weeks," he murmurs, voice so soft it barely exists.
"Exactly forty weeks from conception to labor onset. Down to the minute."
The nurse blinks."…That's not possible."
Zenith's eyes flick to her.
Not cold.
Not hostile.
Just factual.
"It's happening anyway."
Another contraction hits — stronger, sharper — and Raylene cries out, her body curling in on itself. Zenith is there instantly, one hand bracing her back, the other gripping her hand with perfect pressure.
She squeezes his fingers so hard her knuckles shake, her breath breaking.
His voice lowers, steady and calm as a metronome:
"Raylene. You're safe. You're doing everything right. I'm here."
He's still in that clinical headspace —collecting every detail,
monitoring every reaction,
analyzing every pattern —
but the devotion behind it is unmistakable.
It's not cold.
It's reverent.
It's the only way he knows how to protect her.
A nurse whispers to another in the corner, just loud enough for Zenith to hear:
"He's… intense."
The other murmurs back, "At least he's helpful. I've never seen anyone track contractions better than the monitor."
Zenith doesn't react.
He keeps his focus on Raylene —
on her breath,
on her pain,
on her trembling.
When the contraction finally loosens its grip, she collapses back against the bed, sweat beading along her hairline, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
Zenith adjusts her pillow with gentle care and wipes the dampness from her forehead with the cuff of his sleeve.
"Breathe," he murmurs.
"That one lasted nearly twenty seconds. You endured it."
And for just a moment —
even through the fear,
the pain,
the unnatural timing —
Raylene feels safe.
Wholly, terrifyingly safe.
Because even if this is unnatural…
Zenith is here.
And he is watching everything.
---
The door hisses open.
A doctor steps in — mid-forties, steady presence, the kind of practiced calm that hospitals cultivate. His ID badge reads Dr. Lorne. He gives Raylene a reassuring smile before glancing at the monitor beside her.
And then he stops.
Just… stops.
His brows knit together, not in alarm yet, but in sharp, clinical confusion.
"Is this accurate?" he asks the nurse, tapping the corner of the screen.
Zenith looks up immediately — as if the question were directed at him.
"Yes," he says before the nurse can respond.
"It's been consistent for the last twenty minutes."
Dr. Lorne studies the data again.
Raylene watches his face — and even through her pain, she notices the subtle shift in his expression. His practiced composure falters for half a second.
The baby's heartbeat was too steady.
Not slow.
Not fast.
Not irregular.
Perfect.
Almost… mathematical.
A crisp, unchanging 140 bpm, holding the number with such unnatural precision that the monitor might as well have been frozen.
Dr. Lorne frowns.
"That's… unusual."
Zenith's voice is quiet, but razor-sharp:
"Define unusual."
The doctor clears his throat.
"Well, fetal heart rates fluctuate. They always fluctuate. Environmental stress, contraction intervals, maternal breathing, movement—these all cause natural variation. But here it's…"
He gestures at the flat line of perfectly spaced beats.
"…static."
Raylene's chest tightens — not from the contraction building, but from the doctor's tone.
Zenith doesn't look away from the screen.
"It's been like that since the first contraction," he says.
His eyes flick to Raylene, softening for a heartbeat before turning analytical again.
"At 10:37 PM."
Dr. Lorne blinks.
"…You remember the exact time?"
Zenith doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.
Raylene's hand finds his — gripping, grounding, seeking him.
The doctor continues, trying to remain composed:
"I've… never seen a fetal heartbeat hold a perfect tempo like this. No increase, no decrease, not even a margin of error. It's almost—"
He doesn't finish.
Because the monitor suddenly flickers.
Not like a malfunction.
Not like a loose wire.
Like a skipped frame.
Raylene's breath catches.
Zenith steps closer to her bed, posture shifting subtly — protective, calculating, ready.
"Contraction starting," he says softly, before she even feels it.
And then—
The Contraction That Breaks Reality
It hits her.
Harder than any before.
A full-body, consuming spasm that arches her back off the bed and tears a raw, strangled sound from her throat.
The overhead lights flicker.
Once.
Then again — in perfect rhythm with her contraction.
The monitors glitch.
The screen pixelates for half a second.
A soft burst of static pops in the air.
The doctor stumbles back a step.
The nurses freeze.
Zenith is the only one who moves — the only one who doesn't look shocked. He braces Raylene, one arm around her back, the other gripping her shaking hand.
"Stay with me," he murmurs, voice steady despite the chaos.
"You're okay. You're okay. I've got you."
Raylene can barely breathe.
The pain is blinding, primal, overwhelming — but she feels him, his voice threading through the noise like a lifeline.
The room flickers again.
Not the lights this time.
Everything.
For the briefest instant, the edges of the room warp — as if the walls and ceiling are trying to adjust to something they can't make sense of.
A nurse drops her pen.
The doctor breathes,
"What the hell—"
Zenith doesn't flinch.
"Her body and the environment are responding to the same signal,
"he says, calm but strained, as if explaining scientific data while holding the woman he loves through agony.
"This is part of it."
Another violent pulse shudders through Raylene's body.
Her nails dig into his arm.
Her vision whites out.
Zenith tightens his hold, jaw clenched, voice low:
"It's okay. I know. I know. Just breathe. You're almost through this one."
And finally—
the contraction releases.
The lights steady.
The monitors return to normal.
The room exhales.
Raylene collapses back into the bed, chest heaving, tears streaking down her temples.
Dr. Lorne stands frozen, staring between her, Zenith, and the equipment like he's witnessing something he has no language for.
Raylene's voice trembles:
"What… was that?"
Zenith brushes his forehead against hers — a gesture soft enough to break anyone watching:
"That," he whispers,
---
"wasn't the worst one."
---
For a long moment, no one in the room moves.
The doctor stands there, stunned, hands slightly raised as if bracing for another shift in reality. The nurse nearest the monitor looks pale, still staring at the screen like it might start glitching again.
Finally, Dr. Lorne clears his throat — once, twice — forcing professionalism back into his posture.
"Alright," he says, voice a shade too tight, "let's… stabilize the environment. We need to stay calm. Whatever that was— it doesn't change the protocol."
He says it like someone trying to convince himself.
But Zenith watches him with that unnerving stillness again — the same expression he had when the oven clock hit 10:37.
The doctor avoids his eyes.
He turns to the nurse.
"Check dilation again. Compare with her last measurement."
The nurse nods, pulling herself together. They move to Raylene's side, gently helping her reposition despite her post-contraction exhaustion.
Raylene's eyes drift toward Zenith, searching.
He is already watching her.
His mask back in place — clinical, calculating, unbearably calm — but there's something under it now. Something wild and fragile.
The doctor examines the readouts again, mumbling to himself.
"Two minutes ago she was at four centimeters… let's see if—"
He stops.
"Eight."
The nurse looks up sharply.
"Eight? Already?"
Raylene's entire body tenses.
Zenith's jaw clenches once, almost imperceptibly.
"That's impossible," the doctor mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. "That kind of progression in under five minutes—"
Zenith speaks before he can finish.
"It fits the pattern."
His voice is steady — too steady — but the doctor shoots him a look that's part frustration, part fear.
"What pattern?"
Zenith doesn't answer.
Not because he doesn't know —but because the explanation is the kind that breaks people.
Another contraction shudders through Raylene's abdomen — not as severe as the glitching one, but strong enough to make her gasp and clutch the bedrail.
Zenith moves instantly, both hands on her — one bracing her back, the other gripping her trembling hand.
"Raylene," he whispers, voice suddenly soft.
Not clinical.
Not detached.
Soft.
She leans into him, forehead pressing to his shoulder, and for that brief, flickering moment —
Zenith's mask cracks.
His face folds into something raw:
fear,
devotion,
helplessness,
love that hurts to look at.
He presses his forehead to the side of her head, eyes squeezed shut.
For three seconds —just three —he's not analyzing or calculating.
He's just Zenith.
Human.
Terrified.
Holding the woman he loves while her body is tearing itself apart.
His voice breaks on a single whisper:
"I'm here."
Then—
He inhales sharply.
Straightens.
Wipes the expression from his face like erasing chalk from a board.
The mask returns.
He has to.
It's the only way he knows how to survive this.
Raylene feels the shift but doesn't question it.
She squeezes his hand harder, a grounding counterpoint to the clinical stillness he forces around himself.
The doctor rechecks the monitors, disbelief coloring every line of his face.
"She's progressing too fast," he murmurs. "At this rate—"
He checks the clock.
11:00 PM.
"—she might be ready to deliver within 7 minutes."
A chill runs through Raylene's spine.
Zenith's fingers tighten around hers.
The nurse looks at the doctor like he said something unthinkable.
But the readings back him up.
And Zenith already knew.
He's known since 10:37.
Raylene gasps as another contraction hits — shorter, sharper, rapid-fire.
The doctor's voice rises.
"She's accelerating again — get the delivery team ready! Prepare the room!"
The nurses scatter.
The lights seem too bright.
The machines beep faster.
The air feels heavy — charged.
Zenith steadies her through the contraction, his expression locked back into that precise, terrifying calm.
"It's almost time," he murmurs.
Raylene turns her head toward the clock:
11:00 PM.
7 minutes to 11:07.
Her breath catches.
"Zenith," she whispers, voice trembling. "You said… the pattern—"
He brushes her cheek gently with the back of his hand.
"The pattern ends at the thirty-minute mark," he says quietly.
"Which means—"
The doctor interrupts from across the room.
"She'll be ready to push by 11:07."
Raylene's heart lurches.
Not because of the number.
But because she sees Zenith's face — the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw clenches, the almost imperceptible nod.
He already knew.
Exactly.
To the minute.
And somehow — impossibly —the doctor's prediction matches Zenith's calculations perfectly.
The room dims for half a second — not the lights — the room.
Raylene clutches Zenith's hand as another contraction begins.
He holds her tighter.
"We're almost there," he murmurs.
His voice low, steady, terrified.
"Eleven oh seven."
Everything becomes a blur.
Not minutes.
Not seconds.
Just sensations.
Her next contraction hits so suddenly she doesn't even manage a breath beforehand — it slams into her like a wall, folding her inward.
Her vision blurs.
Her ears ring.
The hospital lights smear into long streaks above her.
She hears someone shouting for more staff — maybe the doctor — but the words don't make sense anymore. They fall apart before they reach her.
Another contraction crashes on top of the first.
Too close.
Too fast.
Too synchronized.
She can't tell where one ends and the next begins — they link together like a chain pulled tight inside her.
She tries to inhale, but the pain punches the breath out of her chest.
Her entire world narrows to:
---
heatpressure
Zenith's voice
and white, white light.
---
Voices swirl around her like water.
Footsteps.
Machines.
Fabric rustling.
Metal against metal.
The delivery team floods into the room — she sees fragments of them through half-closed eyes:
masks
gloves
blue scrubs
wide, confused eyes
nervous glances at the monitors
nervous glances at her
Someone says, "She's progressing too fast—"
Someone else says, "How is she already at nine—?"
Another voice cuts in, "Monitor's glitching again— what is this?"
She wants to answer, but she can't even gather the thought.
Another contraction hits.
It rips through her like something alive.
And the room flickers.
Not her vision — no — the room.
The walls bend for a heartbeat,
the shadows shift sideways,
the ceiling hums with static.
She whimpers, pressing her forehead into Zenith's hand without realizing she'd reached for him.
She can't hear anyone clearly.
Their words warp and stretch, slipping away from her.
Except him.
Zenith is at her side — his hand on her cheek, the other gripping hers like an anchor. His voice threads through everything else:
"Raylene.
Look at me.
Breathe for me.
Stay with me."
She tries.
She tries to listen, tries to focus, but her mind is sliding, slipping — the contractions are too sharp, too synchronized, too exact, like the inside of her body is following a metronome she can't see.
Another flicker.
The lights dim and flare.
The monitors squeal with static.
Someone stumbles backward, swearing softly.
She barely registers it.
Her entire consciousness collapses inward, shrinking to a pinpoint:
Zenith's thumb brushing across her cheek, slow and grounding.
His eyes — focused, trembling underneath.
The only thing keeping her from falling into the void.
9 cm → 10 cm — Too Fast to Understand
She hears the doctor, distant and underwater:
"She's at nine—"
Another contraction slams her.
The doctor stiffens.
"No— ten. She's at ten!"
It makes no sense.
Nothing makes sense now.
Her body is too full, too tight, too pressured with something she isn't ready for, something massive and inevitable.
The world glitches —
white,
then black,
then too bright again.
She feels herself panting, but the breaths don't feel like hers.
His hand cups the back of her head gently, his forehead pressed to hers.
His voice shakes.
Just once.
"Raylene, listen to me. You're ready."
She shakes her head — or tries to.
She's not ready.
She can't be.
She doesn't even know what's happening.
Her body isn't her own anymore.
She's drowning in contractions she can't separate.
Time isn't real.
Pain isn't waves — it's a single, continuous scream inside her bones.
"Zenith— I— I can't—"
"You can."
His voice steadies again, slipping back into that precise calm.
"You're almost there. You're going to push soon. I'll tell you when."
Push?
Now?
Already?
She can't comprehend it.
The doctor shouts something — a count, instructions — but it's Zenith's voice she follows.
Always his.
Her body tightens again — a contraction so strong it swallows everything else. She can't even cry out. She shakes, jaw clenched, tears streaking sideways.
Zenith's fingers thread through hers.
"You're okay. One more. One more and—"
His breath catches.
He looks at the clock.
11:06:50 PM.
His hand tightens on hers.
"Raylene—"
The clock clicks over.
11:07 PM.
And at that exact second—
Her body locks.
A final, crushing force tears through her —stronger than all the others combined,
blinding her vision white,
dissolving the room,
the voices,
everything.
She can't hear herself scream.
She can't hear anything.
Not even Zenith.
The room glitches violently —
lights bursting into static,
shadows warping,
the monitors flattening into single lines.
Then—
something inside her shifts downward.
Heavy.
Massive.
Final.
The doctor shouts,
"Push! PUSH NOW—!"
But Raylene is already pushing —
her body isn't giving her a choice.
It's happening.
Right on time.
Exactly.
The instant 11:07 hits.
Her vision goes black for a heartbeat.
And something begins to enter the world.
---
The world doesn't slow down.
It stops.
Not gradually.
Not gently.
One moment Raylene is drowning in the final, crushing force of the contraction—the next, the entire room snaps into a perfect, silent stillness.
Her vision folds into itself.
White.
Then warm gold.
Then nothing.
She blacks out.
But it's not like fainting.
Not like sleep.
It's like someone
---
turned her off.
---
She breathes in before she opens her eyes.
A clean, steady breath—not trembling, not gasping—calm.
Wrongly calm.
Like her body doesn't remember the pain at all.
Like none of it ever existed.
Like she dreamed the entire experience.
Her fingers curl instinctively, brushing against something warm.
Someone warm.
She opens her eyes.
He is in her arms.
Not swaddled yet.
Not crying.
Just… there.
Blonde hair—soft, almost glowing in the golden haze surrounding them.
Eyes fully open.
Blue-gold, impossibly developed for a newborn.
And he's looking at her.
Not with confusion.
Not with the helplessness of a baby.
But with a quiet, wondering awareness.
Like she is the first thing in the world he's ever seen
and he is memorizing her face.
Raylene feels something burst open in her chest:
love
protection
fear
relief
a fierce, consuming need to hold him close
and never let anything touch him.
Her arms wrap around him without thought, pulling him to her chest.
He relaxes into the movement, tiny hands curling against her skin.
He doesn't cry.
Not even a sound.
He just watches her.
And she breaks.
Tears climb her throat before she even knows she's crying.
A shift of light—
And then Zenith is suddenly there beside her.
Not walking in.
Not entering.
Materializing.
As if he'd always been in the room but only now allowed himself to be seen.
He sits beside her, movements slow, reverent, wrapping his arms around her from behind. His presence surrounds her like warmth, like protection, like gravity. He looks down at the baby—
And for the first time since the contractions began
since the timing
since the impossible precision—
Zenith's expression softens.
Not just calm.
Not just clinical.
Relief.
Something deep, and trembling, and human.
Raylene turns her head toward him, still crying—full, shaking tears she can't control—but when their eyes meet…
Zenith doesn't react.
His face doesn't acknowledge her at all.
Doesn't respond to her crying.
Doesn't mirror her emotion.
He is focused entirely, completely, utterly on the baby.
As if the world begins and ends with that tiny creature in her arms.
He lifts a hand and brushes one finger across the baby's forehead, the movement slow, deliberate.
The baby's eyes follow the motion.
Raylene feels the tears fall harder—she doesn't know why—she doesn't know what she's feeling—only that it's too much, too big, too overwhelming to contain.
She looks at Zenith again.
He still doesn't look back.
Something in the room shifts—
a crack in the air,
a dimming of the golden haze.
Raylene's vision wavers.
The world softens around the edges.
Zenith's hand is still on her shoulder.
The baby is still in her arms.
Both so close.
Both so real.
Then everything blurs.
The golden light folds in on itself—
And the world
turns
---
black
again.
---
Raylene wakes slowly.
Not gently — just slowly, like her body is piecing itself back together sensation by sensation.
Her eyelids feel heavy.
Her limbs heavier.
The room is no longer golden.
It's sterile.
Dim.
Quiet.
A hospital monitor hums faintly beside her, and she hears the soft hiss of something mechanical in the corner. The air smells like disinfectant and linen.
Her first thought is:
Where is Zenith?
Her second:
Where is the baby?
She tries to lift her head, but it feels like an impossible weight.
Her body won't obey her.
A soft voice breaks the silence.
"Raylene?"
Dr. Lorne stands beside the bed.
His expression is calm— too calm.
Practiced.
Something about it feels wrong.
She blinks slowly.
Her throat is dry.
"…How long was I asleep?"
The doctor hesitates.
Just for a moment.
A tiny flicker of truth he tries to swallow before it shows on his face.
"You were unconscious for… a bit longer than expected," he says, voice even. "Your body was under a great deal of strain. We needed to ensure your vitals stabilized before waking you."
Raylene stares at him.
It feels like a lie.
A polished, rehearsed lie.
"Everything is alright now," he adds gently. "You did very well."
She doesn't remember doing anything.
She remembers nothing after 11:07.
Her voice trembles as she whispers:
"My baby…?"
Dr. Lorne steps aside.
A nurse is standing across the room, holding a tiny bundle — wrapped neatly, sleeping.
The baby.
Her baby.
Blonde hair faintly visible.
A peaceful expression.
Breathing steady.
Raylene's heart lurches, but her body—
Her body is too heavy to move.
Too tired to respond.
She reaches out—or tries to—but her hand barely lifts off the sheet before falling back again.
The nurse immediately comes closer, but Raylene can't even hold out her arms.
It feels like her soul is reaching faster than her body can.
The baby is placed gently in her arms.
She looks down at him, breath trembling.
But she still can't lift him.
Her muscles won't obey.
She's overwhelmed.
Exhausted.
Barely present.
It's almost worse than fear.
Dr. Lorne gives her a reassuring smile.
"You're safe. Everything went smoothly."
Another lie.
Because what actually happened hangs heavy in the air between the nurses and doctor.
Something unspoken.
Uncomfortable.
And Raylene senses it.
Something in their eyes.
In the stiffness of their postures.
Something they won't say.
---
The truth:
She almost died.
---
Her heart had flatlined for seven seconds.
Her breathing had stopped.
Her body had collapsed completely at the final push.
It wasn't the baby.
It wasn't injury.
It was the energy that tore through the room — the glitch, the burst, the phenomenon they cannot name — that had nearly taken her with it.
The doctor had panicked.
The nurses had screamed.
The delivery team had backed away from the bed as the lights strobed and the walls wavered.
They had been terrified.
And through all of it—
Zenith
Zenith had been at her side.
Kneeling.
Hands wrapped around her trembling one.
His forehead pressed against her wrist.
And for the first time in anyone's memory—
Zenith had cried.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Silently.
Tears slipping down his face, falling onto her arm, his shoulders shaking despite his attempts to hide it. His grip on her hand trembling uncontrollably.
The nurses had seen it.
The doctor had seen it.
A man who had been eerily composed through everything now undone completely, breath breaking, whispering her name into the back of her hand as if it was the only word he had ever learned.
They had never seen him cry.
And they never wanted to see him cry again.
When her heart restarted, when she finally inhaled again, his sob froze in his throat, cut short in shock.
Then relief.
Relief so overwhelming it made him collapse forward, forehead pressed to her arm, his tears soaking her skin.
No one tells her this now.
Not a single person.
They are too unsettled.
Too shaken by what they witnessed.
And Zenith—
Zenith isn't in the room now.
Not until she's stable.
They made him step outside.
Because when she flatlined—he had tried to take control of the room,
voice breaking,
ordering them to fix her,
hands shaking uncontrollably.
He had been too much.
Too raw.
Too terrified.
They needed him out of the way to treat her.
So now he waits outside the door, pacing like a caged thing, refusing to sit, refusing to blink too long, refusing to let her out of his sight.
He will come the moment they let him.
And Raylene—
Raylene knows nothing.
She looks down at the baby in her arms — barely able to lift him, barely able to hold him — and exhaustion washes over her again, pulling at her eyelids, her breath, her thoughts.
Dr. Lorne keeps smiling softly, gently:
"You're safe now. Just rest. Everything is okay."
But Raylene sees the truth lingering behind his eyes:
Nothing about this delivery was okay.
Before she can ask anything more—
Her vision blurs.
Her breathing slows.
And she slips back under.