Outside, the city hummed with Friday night energy—distant sirens, bass thrumming from somewhere below, the occasional roar of a crowd from the arena twelve blocks away.

Inside, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

The marble countertops were cold under your palms as you leaned over the kitchen island, phone screen glowing face-up beside you. A text from Preston, three hours old.

Your reflection stared back at you from the dark patio glass—loose sweater clinging differently than it used to, the subtle curve of your stomach visible now even when you tried to hide it.

Somewhere in the distance, a helicopter drifted past the Space Needle.

Your phone buzzed again.