Willow felt the first wrongness before she could name it.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a sharp pain or a sudden gasp. It was just… off. A pressure under her ribs, a flicker of heat beneath her skin, a too-loud hum in her ears. She blinked at her computer screen, reread the same line three times, and still didn't absorb it.
Then the overhead lights seemed to brighten at once—harsh, clinical, buzzing like something alive.
The printer in the corner clicked loudly.
Someone laughed near the hallway—a normal sound on any other day—but today it scraped down her spine like metal.
She pressed her hand low on her belly, instinctive, protective.
"Not now," she whispered. "Please… not now."
Her body ignored her.
Her pulse jumped—
raced—
then stumbled in a stuttering, terrifying rhythm.
She swallowed, but her throat locked.
Air came in thin, uneven pulls.
Her fingers tingled.
Her vision narrowed at the edges.
Panic.
Real panic.
Not nerves.
Not stress.
