"The system told me I had weeks left — not days," Riley said aloud, clutching the damp test paper as if it could breathe. The corridor outside Exam Room B smelled of antiseptic and lemon. A maintenance cart squeaked. A nurse passed with a chart and didn't look at her. The hospital's ceiling speakers clicked once, then a thin, neutral voice filled the hallway — the Anchor feed, routed by protocol whenever a registered host checked in. "Anchor System Notification: Patient Riley Clarke. Affection Index: 22 percent. Partner: Sebastian Langford. Threshold required to maintain host status: thirty percent. Projected grace period: six weeks from issuance. If Affection Index falls below threshold before projected grace period ends, automatic decommissioning procedures will commence. Please consult with assigned medical officer." The voice was a fact, not cruelty. Facts had no mercy. Riley felt the paper crumple between her fingers. The edges of the prenatal strip were stained with a faint smear of blood. The strip had said pregnant when the nurse had held it up under the harsh light; Dr. Braun's face had been flat, professional. And then the hospital had connected to the Anchor feed, the feed had spoken its numbers, and Riley’s world had condensed to digits on a speaker. "Six weeks," she mouthed. The sound was a dry thing. She pressed the paper harder, as if squeezing could change the speaker's arithmetic. Someone cleared their throat behind her. A cleaning woman paused, hesitant, then kept going. People moved