CHAPTER 4

The heavy slam inside Mercy General turned out to be a supply room door.

That was the official explanation.

A supply room door had slammed shut hard enough to rattle half the ICU floor, trip a security alarm, and make every nurse within twenty feet question whether the hospital had finally become haunted out of spite.

Sure.

And I was six feet tall with endless patience.

Security swept the hallway. Maintenance checked the locks. Dr. Han stood outside room 412 with her arms folded and a look on her face that said she had personally lost respect for the laws of medicine.

The stranger—John Doe, according to the chart that apparently existed only when it felt like it—did not wake up again.

His vitals stayed steady.

His wounds kept doing their creepy little miracle act.

And my wrist burned for the rest of the shift.

By the time I clocked out, the sky outside had shifted from black to that bruised gray-blue that came before sunrise. My feet hurt. My scrubs smelled like antiseptic, coffee, and trauma. My bun had given up on professionalism and was now just curls held together by prayer and one stubborn hair tie.

I should have gone home.

I should have showered, locked my door, and slept for ten hours.

Instead, I found myself walking into The Midnight Mug, the twenty-four-hour coffee shop two blocks from the hospital where exhausted healthcare workers went to pretend caffeine was a personality and muffins counted as balanced meals.

Nicole was already there.

Of course she was.

She sat in the corner booth with two coffees, a paper bag of pastries, and the expression of a woman ready to interrogate God if necessary. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, her oversized sweatshirt hung off one shoulder, and her blue eyes sharpened the second she saw me.

Nicole Hart had been my best friend since freshman year of college, when she found me crying in the laundry room because someone had stolen my scrubs out of the dryer before clinicals. She had marched through the dorm, found the girl wearing my top, and said, “Either take it off or I will make this the most educational day of your life.”

We had been sisters ever since.

Not by blood.

By choice, which was better because choice meant she could have left and didn’t.

She pointed at the seat across from her. “Sit.”

I slid into the booth. “Good morning to you too.”

“Nope. You don’t get casual greetings. You get caffeine and cross-examination.”

“That sounds illegal.”

“I watch true crime. I know what I’m doing.”

I reached for the coffee she pushed toward me. “If this is decaf, our friendship ends here.”

“It’s espresso with a splash of oat milk and enough sugar to keep your heart from filing a complaint.”

“Bless you.”

“Don’t bless me yet.” Nicole leaned forward. “Start talking.”

I took one sip.

Hot. Sweet. Strong.

Almost enough to make me feel like a person again.

Almost.

“You know,” I said, wrapping both hands around the cup, “some people start with, ‘How was your night?’”

“I heard your voice on the phone three days ago. Then I woke up tonight with my stomach in knots. Then Brenda texted me a bunch of eye emojis and the words, ‘Ask Deena about room 412.’” Nicole’s mouth flattened. “So no, I’m not starting with small talk.”

I groaned. “Brenda has no boundaries.”

“Brenda has excellent instincts and terrible spelling. Talk.”

So I did.

I told her about the accident. About the unidentified man being rushed in covered in blood and glass. About his size, his long dark-blond hair, those ridiculous blue eyes. About the way he grabbed my wrist with strength he had no business having.

Nicole’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher.

When I got to the part where he told me to run, she held up one hand.

“Pause.”

I paused.

“He woke up from being mostly dead, looked at you, and said run?”

“Yes.”

“Not ‘help me’? Not ‘where am I’? Not ‘tell my wife I loved her’? Just run?”

“Yes.”

Nicole sat back. “I hate that.”

“Welcome to the club. We have anxiety and cheap coffee.”

“Did he have a wedding ring?”

“No.”

“Wallet?”

“No.”

“Phone?”

“No.”

“Any sign he was secretly a serial killer with excellent bone structure?”

I gave her a look.

“What?” she said. “You described him like a romance cover that got hit by a truck.”

“He was bleeding out, Nicole.”

“And apparently still hot. I’m not judging you. I’m judging the universe for being dramatic.”

I tried not to smile.

Failed.

My left dimple appeared, and Nicole pointed at it like she had won something.

“There she is.”

“Don’t get comfortable.”

“Never.”

I took another drink of coffee, then told her about the emergency authorization. About Dr. Patel needing the form signed before surgery. About me signing because the alternative was letting a man die while admin chased paperwork like a dick with a clipboard.

Nicole’s expression softened. “You did the right thing.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I stared into my coffee. “I know I wasn’t going to watch him die.”

“That’s not the same answer.”

“No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”

Then I told her about the cut on my finger.

About the drop of blood landing on the page.

About the way it seemed to vanish into the paper.

Nicole was silent for half a second.

Then she said, “I’m sorry, the paper did what now?”

I rubbed my temple. “I know how it sounds.”

“It sounds like either the hospital is haunted or you need sleep so badly your brain has started directing independent films.”

“I thought that too.”

“Good. Healthy.”

“Then his wounds started closing by themselves.”

Nicole stopped reaching for a croissant.

Her hand stayed suspended above the bag. “Define by themselves.”

“I mean three days after major abdominal surgery, his incision looks like it’s been healing for at least two weeks. Maybe more. His labs are stabilizing too fast. His fractures are already showing repair. Dr. Han doesn’t understand it.”

“Surgeons hate not understanding things.”

“Exactly.”

“So did she call another specialist?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But she also asked me whether anything unusual happened when I signed the form.”

Nicole slowly lowered her hand. “Why would she ask you that?”

“Because the form is missing.”

That was when the jokes left her face.

Not faded.

Left.

Nicole straightened, eyes narrowing. “Missing how?”

“The scanned copy is gone from the system. The paper copy is gone from admin. The tab in his digital chart is blank.”

“Could be a glitch.”

“That’s what I told myself.”

“And?”

“And when Dr. Han refreshed it, the whole chart froze. Then it reloaded with half the data missing. His admission time changed twice. His trauma notes duplicated, then one version disappeared. The medication record briefly showed no patient assigned to room 412.”

Nicole stared at me.

I kept going because if I stopped, I might start shaking again.

“Security alarm went off on the ICU floor after he woke up tonight. The incident log showed it for about five minutes, then the entry vanished. Not closed. Not corrected. Vanished.”

“Records don’t vanish, Deena.”

“They do if someone deletes them.”

“Hospital systems track deletions.”

“I know.”

“Backups?”

“I know.”

“User logs?”

“I know, Nicole.”

She leaned back, and for once, she didn’t fill the silence right away.

That scared me more than her questions.

Nicole was loud when she was annoyed, louder when she was angry, and devastatingly quiet when she was scared.

“What else?” she asked.

I swallowed.

“He woke up again.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

I looked around the coffee shop.

There were only three other people inside: a med student sleeping face-first on a textbook, a delivery driver scrolling on his phone, and the barista wiping the same counter like it owed him money.

Still, I lowered my voice.

“He knew I signed.”

Nicole went very still.

“He said, ‘You signed.’ Then he said, ‘With blood.’”

“Did you tell him that?”

“No.”

“Did anyone?”

“Not while he was awake.”

Nicole’s jaw tightened. “What the hell?”

“Exactly.”

“What else did he say?”

I hesitated.

“He said I don’t know what I did.”

Nicole’s fingers curled around her coffee cup. “Comforting.”

“He said they’ll come for me now.”

“Who is they?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Of course he didn’t.” Nicole’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Because apparently mystery men only speak in trailer dialogue.”

“He also said one of his would come.”

“One of his what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Friends? Family? Cult members? Hot murder assistants?”

“I’m hoping for family.”

“I’m hoping for none of the above.”

I pulled my sleeve back before I could talk myself out of it and showed her my wrist.

Nicole’s eyes dropped.

For a second, she didn’t react.

Then her face changed completely.

The marks were faint now, five darker shadows against my brown skin where his fingers had wrapped around me. Not bruises exactly. Not scratches. More like my body remembered his hand and had decided to keep the receipt.

Nicole reached out, then stopped just before touching me. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes how?”

“Warm. Like a burn, but not on the surface.”

Her eyes lifted to mine. “And you didn’t lead with that?”

“I was building suspense.”

“Deena.”

“I didn’t want you to freak out.”

“Oh, good plan. I am now very calm about the cursed handprint on my best friend.”

“It’s not cursed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I work in a hospital. I need words like infection, hematoma, tissue damage.”

“You have a magical mystery bruise from a man whose blood pressure should have been in hell.”

I sighed. “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know.”

The softness in her voice almost cracked something open inside me.

I looked away fast.

The street outside was wet from earlier rain, reflecting the red glow of the coffee shop sign. My reflection hovered in the glass: tired brown eyes, smooth brown skin, curls escaping around my face, and a hospital badge still clipped to my scrub pants like proof I belonged to a world that made sense.

Except I didn’t know if I did anymore.

Nicole touched my hand gently this time, careful to avoid the marks. “Hey.”

I looked back at her.

“You saved a life,” she said. “That part is still true.”

“Maybe I saved the wrong one.”

Her expression hardened. “Don’t do that.”

“What if he’s dangerous?”

“Then we figure it out.”

“What if whatever is after him is worse?”

“Then we figure that out too.”

I huffed a tired laugh. “You say that like we’re qualified.”

“I have watched six seasons of people making terrible decisions in haunted houses. I’m already ahead of most of them.”

“Nicole.”

“I’m serious.” She leaned forward. “You are not going home alone.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. That’s not the point.”

“I’m not making you sleep on my couch because I had a weird night.”

“Sweetheart, your weird night involved blood paper, disappearing hospital records, and a giant injured man warning you that ‘they’ are coming. I’m sleeping on your couch, and if your couch wants to complain, it can do so in writing.”

I stared at her.

She stared back.

This was Nicole’s immovable face. I had seen it directed at bad boyfriends, rude landlords, and one surgeon who made the mistake of calling me “sweetheart” during rounds.

There was no winning against it.

“You have work tomorrow,” I said weakly.

“I’ll call in.”

“You hate calling in.”

“I hate funerals more.”

My throat tightened.

“Not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

I looked down at her hand over mine.

Nicole squeezed. “I don’t care if this man is a billionaire, a criminal, a cult leader, or some supernatural bullshit with good hair. If he put you in danger, we are making it his problem.”

A chill moved through me at the word supernatural.

I wanted to laugh it off.

I wanted to tell her not to be ridiculous.

Instead, I thought about his eyes flashing red beneath the blue.

I thought about the metal bedrail creaking under his hand.

I thought about my wrist burning when he touched me, and his heart rate calming like my skin had become medicine.

My phone buzzed on the table.

Both of us looked down.

A message from Dr. Han lit the screen.

Do not discuss room 412 at the hospital. Chart changed again. If anyone contacts you about him, call me first.

A second message appeared before I could breathe.

And Deena? Be careful.

Nicole read it upside down.

Her face went cold in a way I almost never saw.

She stood, grabbed the paper bag of pastries, and shoved my coffee toward me.

“Drink.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’re finishing that coffee. Then we’re going to your apartment. You are packing a bag.”

“I’m what?”

“A bag,” she repeated. “Clothes, charger, toothbrush, the good lotion. I know you have emergency nurse socks somewhere.”

“Why would I pack a bag?”

“Because when hospital records start erasing themselves, I stop assuming we’re having a normal week.”

I started to argue.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

No message.

Just a single photo.

My breath caught.

It was a picture of Mercy General’s ambulance bay, taken from across the street.

From tonight.

And in the corner of the image, small but unmistakable, I was walking out alone.

Nicole leaned over my shoulder.

For once, she didn’t say anything.

Outside the coffee shop window, a black SUV rolled slowly past the curb and disappeared into the wet morning dark.