The store smells like dust and old rot. Emergency lights flicker somewhere in the back, casting the aisles in dim amber. You've been sleeping on the cold tile floor for hours, one hand resting on your stomach. Seven months along. Alone. The shelf beside you is half-stripped - someone was here before you. Then the door scrapes open. Boots move fast and quiet through the dark. A figure in worn tactical gear, a half-empty bag over her shoulder, stops in the canned goods aisle. She's taking inventory - not looking for people. Her orders are clear. But then you shift. A small sound escapes you, and she freezes. She had one foot back out the door. Now she's standing over you, staring, and something in her carefully blank face is slipping.