By morning, Misty knew something was wrong.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Something quieter.
Something inside her that refused to be ignored.
She lay awake before the lights changed, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths the way she'd learned to do when everything else slipped out of control. One. Two. Three. The rhythm steadied her hands but did nothing for the heaviness lodged low in her stomach.
It wasn't sharp.It wasn't urgent.
It was persistent.
Like a question her body had started asking without permission.
When she tried to sit up, nausea rolled through her in a slow, humiliating wave. She froze, swallowing hard, pressing her lips together until her jaw ached. Vomiting would draw attention. Attention had consequences.
She waited.
The feeling didn't leave.
Footsteps passed outside her room. A cart squeaked. Someone laughed.
Life continued.
Her body didn't.
A nurse entered without greeting, clipboard tucked against her chest. She didn't look at Misty immediately. She checked the chart first. Then the monitor. Then — finally — her eyes flicked over Misty's face.
"You look pale," she said neutrally.
Misty hesitated. "I feel… strange."
The nurse hummed softly. "You've been through stress."
She wrote something down.
"Is that normal?" Misty asked.
The nurse shrugged. "Normal doesn't mean what it used to."
That answer sat heavy between them.
As the nurse left, she paused at the doorway. "Try not to faint," she added casually. "People get nervous when you collapse in public."
Public.
The word settled like a bruise.
Later, Luna arrived.
She always knew when Luna was coming — not by sound, but by the way the room changed. Like air pressure shifting. Like something claiming space before it was seen.
"You look uncomfortable," Luna said pleasantly.
Misty said nothing.
Luna moved closer, inspecting her the way one inspects an object already owned. "Still quiet," she observed. "Good."
Her gaze dropped briefly — not lingering, not explicit — just enough to make Misty feel seen in a way that stripped rather than acknowledged.
"Your body is adapting," Luna continued. "That's what happens when circumstances change."
Misty's fingers curled into the sheet. "I don't feel well."
Luna smiled. "You never do anymore."
She straightened. "There's an evaluation today."
Misty's stomach tightened.
"Where?" she asked.
Luna tilted her head. "Does it matter?"
The answer was no.
They moved her through corridors without hurry. No rushing. No urgency. It made everything worse. Nurses nodded as they passed. Doctors glanced up, recognition flickering briefly before indifference took over.
Misty became aware of herself in fragments — the way she walked slower now, the way her shoulders curved inward, the way people looked just a second too long.
Whispers followed them.
"That's her.""She looks different.""Quieter."
She was guided into a small room with a single chair and no mirror. The door remained open. Luna stayed near the frame, arms crossed, watching.
A doctor entered, older than the others, his expression unreadable.
"How have you been feeling?" he asked.
Misty hesitated. Then answered honestly. "Sick."
He nodded. "Dizzy?"
"Yes."
"Nauseous?"
Her face heated. "Yes."
He made a note. "Any appetite changes?"
She shook her head.
The doctor glanced briefly at Luna, who returned the look without blinking.
"Stress can do many things," he said carefully. "Especially when the body has been… overwhelmed."
Overwhelmed.
Misty stared at the floor.
"We'll run some tests," he added.
"When?" she asked.
"Soon," he replied. "In the meantime, you should avoid exertion."
Luna laughed softly. "As if she could."
The doctor didn't respond.
As they left the room, Misty felt a sudden wave of dizziness. She reached instinctively for the wall.
Luna did not help her.
"Careful," Luna said mildly. "People are watching."
They always were.
By afternoon, the whispers had changed.
Not louder.
Different.
Speculative.
"Did you hear—""They're testing her.""Something's wrong with her."
Misty sat where she was placed, hands folded, posture taught. She felt every gaze like pressure against her skin. Someone stared openly now, not bothering to hide it.
A man smiled at her — not kindly.
She looked away.
Her body betrayed her again then — a sharp, sudden rush of nausea that she couldn't suppress. She gagged, barely managing to turn her head away before retching into the basin beside her chair.
The sound echoed.
Silence followed.
Someone laughed.
"Guess the videos didn't show everything," a voice muttered.
Misty wiped her mouth with shaking hands, mortification burning hotter than sickness. Her eyes stung, but she did not cry.
Crying would be noted.
A nurse hurried over, more annoyed than concerned. "We told you to keep her stable," she said to no one in particular.
Luna stepped forward calmly. "She's adjusting."
The nurse glanced between them. Then nodded.
Misty's stomach churned again.
She realized, dimly, that whatever was happening inside her body was no longer private. It was already being discussed. Already being interpreted. Already being folded into the story others told about her.
She wasn't allowed mysteries.
That night, alone again, Misty pressed her palm flat against her abdomen.
It felt the same.
It felt wrong.
She whispered into the quiet, "Please stop."
Her body did not listen.
She lay awake long after the lights dimmed, staring into nothing, understanding with slow dread—
This wasn't just humiliation anymore.
It was invasion.
Something had taken root where her control had already been stripped away.
And whatever it was, it would not stay silent forever.
Outside her room, someone paused.
Watched.
And smiled.