They dragged me down a service corridor — concrete walls, flickering fluorescent, the smell of industrial cleaner and something metallic underneath.
I fought the entire way.
Clawed at the arms holding me. Kicked backward until my heel connected with someone's shin. Twisted my body weight sideways. Screamed until my throat felt stripped raw.
One of them clamped a hand over my mouth. I bit down. Hard. Tasted copper.
He swore. Yanked his hand back. Someone else grabbed my hair — pulled my head back at an angle that made my vision white out for a second — and hissed against my ear.
"Keep fighting. See what happens to the baby."
I went still.
Not because I wanted to. Because every instinct in my body seized up — that primal, animal response that bypasses thought entirely. Protect. Survive. Keep her safe.
My hands went to my stomach. Covered her. Pressed flat like I could shield her through skin and muscle and will alone.
