It's 2 a.m. and the sheets are in ribbons again. Your claws are still half-out, your pulse loud in your ears, and the apartment smells like cold sweat and cedar. The baby shifts. You press a hand to your stomach without thinking. Then the knock comes. Soft. Three times. Patient. You know it isn't Dasha - she doesn't knock like that. She doesn't knock at all. This is different. This is Jade, your neighbor, the one who leaves soup outside your door without a word and never asks for anything back. You don't know what to do with someone like that. You never have. But it's 2 a.m., your hands are shaking, and she's still waiting.