(Alex POV)
Light.
Blinding lights.
White, harsh, and all-consuming.
One moment, I was in my room—cozy, warm, familiar. I was lounging on my bed with a controller in my hand, fully immersed in a chaotic match of Helldivers 2, proudly and violently spreading democracy with reckless abandon. Explosions, screams, mission objectives—then suddenly, everything just… stopped.
The very next moment, I was no longer there.
I was in an operating room, cold and sterile, surrounded by unfamiliar faces in scrubs and masks. Panic surged in me, but I couldn't move. My limbs were tiny. Weak. I had no control over anything. I couldn't even scream.
What the hell was happening?
That was when I realized the horrifying truth: I wasn't just in the room—I was the one being born.
My vision was blurry, my head pounding despite its small size, and my body felt numb yet overly sensitive all at once. I was being held—no, cradled—by a doctor, a middle-aged man with tired but gentle eyes. In his gloved hands, he held a pair of stainless steel clippers that glinted under the overhead lights. He slowly reached toward the thick, fleshy cord that connected me to... her. My mother.
The umbilical cord.
No.
NO.
I wanted to shout, to thrash, to do anything—but I was helpless. Powerless. Just a newborn, barely aware of the world I had just been forced into. My tiny chest heaved as a strange panic set in, but it was too late.
The doctor brought the clippers forward with practiced precision. There was no ceremony, no hesitation—just a quick, mechanical motion as he clipped the cord that tied me to the only source of warmth and safety I had ever known.
The pain was instant.
It was indescribable—not because it was sharp or violent, but because it was fundamental. A pain that echoed through my soul more than my nerves. A pain of separation, of transition, of being torn from something that had always been part of me.
Even though it was over in seconds, it felt like it lasted a lifetime.
As the procedure ended, the world became overwhelming. My senses were overloaded—the cold air, the rough texture of the towel they wrapped me in, the harsh lights above, the sounds of machines and voices speaking in a language I now barely understood.
My eyes welled up.
The tears came, unbidden and uncontrollable. I began to cry—loud, primal wails that filled the room and echoed off the sterile walls. I wasn't just crying from the pain—I was crying from everything. From fear. From confusion. From grief for the life that had just been taken from me.
My cries didn't stop until I felt her.
Warmth.
A familiar scent, something sweet and comforting. I was gently placed beside a woman who looked exhausted but radiant. Her face was flushed, her hair damp with sweat, but her eyes… Her eyes were soft, brimming with love and relief.
She was crying too.
She held me in her arms like I was the most precious thing in the world, her hands trembling slightly as she ran her fingers along my cheek. Her touch soothed me in a way nothing else could.
"Oh my sweet boy," she whispered, her voice cracking from exhaustion and emotion. "I'm so happy you're okay."
Her voice was like a melody I had forgotten but instantly recognized. Familiar and warm. I stopped crying, lulled by her presence.
"The operation was a success, ma'am. You have a perfectly healthy baby boy," the doctor said with a kind smile.
She nodded, barely able to look away from me.
As he spoke, she began to hum. A gentle lullaby I had never heard before yet somehow felt etched into the very core of my being. I didn't know the words, but I didn't need to. It wasn't about the song itself—it was about her voice.
Soothing.
Warm.
Safe.
With every passing second, my eyelids grew heavier. The world faded around me, and for the first time since my birth, I felt peace.
I gave in to sleep.
---
(Mint Julep POV)
I watched him—my sweet, precious baby boy—finally drift off to sleep. His tiny chest rose and fell in slow, even rhythms as he rested in my arms. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.
I was tired. Beyond exhausted. My body ached in ways I didn't even know it could. But it was worth it.
Every ounce of pain, every moment of fear during the operation, every contraction… it had all been worth it just to hold him in my arms. Just to know he was here. Safe.
As I cradled him, a soft knock on the door broke me from my thoughts. The doctor stepped in, accompanied by a nurse who rolled in a small, wheeled hospital cradle. A standard procedure.
"Ma'am," he said gently, "we need to move your son with the rest of the children. Don't worry—you won't be away from him for long."
My heart clenched at the thought of letting go. Even for a moment. But I knew they had to do their job. I looked down at my son—still sleeping peacefully—and reluctantly nodded.
Carefully, I handed him to the nurse, who took him with tender hands and placed him inside the small bed. I resisted the urge to snatch him back. My arms felt cold and empty the second he was gone.
"Okay ma'am," the doctor said, clipboard in hand. "As per hospital procedure, we'll need the name of your son for our records."
I froze.
His name.
I had thought about it for months, and yet the moment felt far more real and heavy than I had expected. I looked down at my hands, remembering the way they once intertwined with another pair—larger, stronger. I remembered his voice. His laugh. The way he looked at me when we first found out I was pregnant.
I remembered him.
My husband.
"Jhin," I said quietly, the name catching slightly in my throat.
The doctor smiled warmly and jotted it down on his paper. "Jhin. A strong name."
He turned and walked out, giving me a moment alone with my thoughts.
Minutes later, the nurse returned with another hospital bed—this one for me. She and another attendant carefully helped me onto the stretcher, their movements efficient but gentle. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest as I was moved, but I bore it without complaint.
As they began to push the bed through the hallway, I passed familiar white walls, fluorescent lights, nurses rushing back and forth with clipboards, the faint beep of monitors in the distance.
Then, we passed the NICU.
I tilted my head ever so slightly, just in time to catch a glimpse through the glass window.
There he was.
My baby boy.
Lying among the other newborns, his face serene and relaxed, his tiny hands curled into fists as he continued to sleep. It was surreal—he looked so small in that little bed, so fragile.
But to me, he was the strongest person I knew.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at him.
The last gift my husband ever gave me before he...
I closed my eyes and inhaled sharply.
No. I couldn't afford to go there right now. I couldn't let myself spiral into grief. Not here. Not now. I needed to be strong.
I forced myself to push the memories away, to lock them deep within the corners of my heart.
For now, my focus had to be on one thing and one thing only: my son.
I needed to recover.
To get stronger.
For him.
For Jhin.
I had made a promise to Jhin, to leave behind the life I once had. The danger. The pain. The darkness that constantly loomed over us. That world took so much from me already. I wouldn't let it take him too.
No matter what it took, I would protect my baby boy.
He wouldn't be dragged into the shadows I escaped.
I made a promise to change.
And I fully intend to keep it.