CHAPTER 5

By seven that morning, Nicole had turned my apartment into a low-budget bunker.

She checked my windows twice, shoved a chair under the front door handle, and slept on my couch with one eye open and a baseball bat balanced across her lap like she was auditioning for a vigilante reboot.

The bat had a pink grip and the words BAD DECISIONS written on it in black marker.

I didn’t ask.

Some friendships came with emotional support and emergency weapons.

I got three hours of sleep, if closing my eyes while my brain replayed a bloody signature, a missing hospital file, and a pair of blue eyes counted as sleep. When my alarm went off, Nicole sat up before I touched my phone.

“No,” she said.

I blinked at her from the hallway. “Good morning to you too.”

“You’re not going back there.”

“I have a shift.”

“You have a stalker photo, a cursed wrist, and a mystery patient who speaks in threats.”

“I also have rent.”

Nicole pointed the bat at me. “Deena.”

I lifted both hands. “I’m not saying this is healthy decision-making. I’m saying Mercy General doesn’t care if my life turned into paranormal bullshit overnight. They still expect me to show up.”

“Call out.”

“I tried.”

“And?”

“Melissa said half the night shift called out with the flu, food poisoning, or lies.”

Nicole’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a trap.”

“That sounds like working in healthcare.”

She groaned and dropped back against the couch cushions. “Fine. I’m driving you.”

“You have a job.”

“I sent an email.”

“You called out?”

“I said there was a family emergency.”

I softened despite myself. “Nicole—”

She sat up again, and the bat came with her. “Don’t make that face. You are my family. Emergency covered.”

My chest tightened.

I looked away before I got emotional at eight in the morning while wearing wrinkled scrubs and mismatched socks.

“Fine,” I said. “But you’re not bringing the bat into the hospital.”

She looked offended. “His name is Jeffrey.”

“Jeffrey stays in the car.”

“Jeffrey protects women.”

“Jeffrey will get us arrested.”

Nicole considered that, then pointed at me. “Text me every ten minutes. If you miss two check-ins, I’m coming upstairs.”

“You can’t just storm the ICU.”

“I absolutely can. I’m white, blonde, and carrying confidence. People let me into places all the time.”

“That is not the flex you think it is.”

“It’s not a flex. It’s a weapon, and today I’m using it for good.”

By the time we got to Mercy General, the sky was bright and the city had settled into its usual morning mood: traffic, sirens, wet pavement, and people pretending they weren’t one inconvenience away from screaming.

Nicole pulled up near the staff entrance instead of the main drop-off.

A black SUV sat across the street.

My stomach dropped.

It could have been nothing. This city had more black SUVs than potholes. But after the photo last night, my brain no longer believed in coincidence. It believed in locks, exits, and possible murder windows.

Nicole saw it too.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “That yours?”

“I don’t own anything that expensive unless we’re counting student loans.”

The SUV didn’t move.

The windows were tinted too dark to see through.

Nicole reached for the bat in the back seat.

I grabbed her wrist. “No.”

“I’m just going to ask some questions.”

“With Jeffrey?”

“He makes people honest.”

“He makes people call security.”

Nicole’s jaw worked. “Text. Every. Ten. Minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

I got out and forced myself not to look over my shoulder every two seconds like the first victim in a horror movie. I made it through the staff entrance, scanned my badge, and stepped into the smell of disinfectant and burnt coffee.

Home sweet underfunded home.

The ER was already a disaster.

Exam four had an elderly man yelling about his missing dentures. A toddler in triage was screaming with the force of a tiny opera singer. Brenda was arguing with a printer, which was fair because that printer had been possessed since 2018.

“Williams,” Melissa called from the nurses’ station, “you’re late.”

I looked at the clock. “By four minutes.”

“In emergency medicine, four minutes is a lifetime.”

“So is this shift. Where do you want me?”

“Trauma two, after you restock. And Dr. Patel asked if you’re okay.”

“Tell Dr. Patel I’m gorgeous and emotionally unavailable.”

Brenda popped her head around the corner. “That’s not new.”

“Focus on your printer, Brenda.”

I lasted twenty-two minutes before I went upstairs.

I told myself I needed to check whether Dr. Han had left notes. I told myself it was professional follow-up. I told myself a lot of things, because apparently lying to yourself counted as cardio.

My wrist started warming before the elevator doors opened on the ICU floor.

Not burning this time.

Pulling.

Like something beneath my skin knew exactly where room 412 was and wanted me there.

“Nope,” I whispered to my own body. “We are not developing GPS for strange men.”

The ICU was quieter than usual.

Too quiet.

A nurse I didn’t recognize sat at the desk, typing with the blank expression of someone whose soul had been absorbed by charting.

“Morning,” I said. “I’m looking for the patient in 412.”

She glanced up. “Four-twelve is empty.”

The floor seemed to tilt.

“What?”

“Empty,” she repeated. “Housekeeping already turned it over.”

I stared at her. “No. There was a John Doe in there. Post-op trauma. Dr. Han’s patient.”

She frowned and clicked through the computer. “No current patient assigned.”

“He was here last night.”

“Not according to this.”

I leaned over the counter before I could stop myself. “Check again.”

Her expression cooled. “I did.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick, but a critically injured unidentified man doesn’t just disappear from an ICU room.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

That made two of us.

I walked past the desk.

“Ma’am,” she called, “you can’t—”

“I work here.”

“Not on this floor.”

“Then call somebody who does.”

Room 412’s door was open.

The bed was stripped.

The monitor was off.

The IV pole was gone.

The whiteboard had been wiped clean.

For a second, I couldn’t move.

That room had held blood, machines, warnings, impossible healing, and one man who looked at me like my life had already changed. Now it looked like none of it had happened.

Like he had never existed.

I stepped inside slowly.

The air still smelled faintly of antiseptic, but underneath it was that same warm, woodsy scent. Rain, smoke, earth. Him.

My wrist pulsed.

I moved to the bed.

The sheets were fresh. Too fresh. Housekeeping fresh. No blood. No twisted blanket. No evidence that a massive injured man had been lying there hours ago.

But the bedrail on the right side was bent inward.

My fingers hovered over it.

The metal had curved where his hand had gripped it.

I swallowed.

“That’s not possible.”

A voice behind me said, “I’m starting to hate that sentence.”

I spun.

Dr. Han stood in the doorway, hair pulled back tight, tablet in her hand, eyes sharper than a scalpel. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Or maybe she had slept and woken up in a worse universe.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“I was hoping you knew.”

My laugh came out wrong. “Why the hell would I know?”

“Because everything about that man has pointed back to you since he opened his eyes.”

That shut me up.

Dr. Han stepped inside and closed the door.

Again with the door closing.

I hated that.

“I came in at six to check on him,” she said. “He was gone.”

“Gone how?”

“Bed empty. IV removed. Monitors disconnected. No alarm recorded. No code. No discharge paperwork that makes any sense.”

“Maybe he walked out.”

She gave me a look.

Right. Stupid suggestion.

The man had been gutted three days ago, cracked ribs and internal trauma included. Even if his body was healing like it had supernatural health insurance, walking out of ICU without being seen was not a thing.

“What does the chart say?” I asked.

Dr. Han’s mouth tightened.

She turned the tablet toward me.

The screen showed a discharge summary.

Patient discharged against medical advice at 03:17. Ambulated independently. Refused wheelchair. Refused prescriptions. Left with personal belongings.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

“He had no personal belongings.”

“No.”

“He was sedated.”

“Lightly.”

“He had no clothes.”

“No.”

“He had a central line.”

“Removed.”

“By who?”

“That’s where it gets fun.”

I looked at her. “I hate fun.”

“The note is under my login.”

My blood went cold.

“You wrote this?”

“No.”

“But it says you did.”

“Yes.”

“Where were you at 3:17?”

“In surgery, repairing a ruptured bowel on the fourth floor.”

“Can you prove that?”

Her expression went flatter. “There were six people in the room, a surgical log, anesthesia records, and a patient who will be very upset if told his bowel repair was imaginary.”

I rubbed my forehead. “So someone used your login.”

“Yes.”

“That’s illegal.”

“That’s the least concerning part.”

She swiped to another screen. His trauma notes appeared for half a second, then flickered.

The name field changed.

DOE, JOHN.

Then blank.

Then EV—

The screen went black.

Dr. Han swore softly.

I stared. “Did that just—”

“Yes.”

“You saw the letters?”

“Yes.”

“E-V?”

“Yes.”

My heart hit hard once.

E-V.

Two letters should not have meant anything.

They meant something anyway.

Dr. Han restarted the tablet, but when the chart loaded again, room 412 had no recent patient history. No admission. No surgery. No labs. No notes.

Just empty space where a man had almost died.

My phone buzzed.

Nicole.

You missed check-in. Don’t make me become a problem.

I typed back with shaking fingers.

Patient gone. Records erased. Stay in lobby.

Her response came immediately.

Like hell.

I looked at Dr. Han. “We need security footage.”

“I already requested it.”

“And?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

Security lived in a beige room near the basement that smelled like stale coffee and old carpet. The guard on duty, Frank, had worked at Mercy General since before I was born and had the permanent expression of a man who had seen too many people lie badly.

He liked me because I once brought him a sandwich during a lockdown.

He did not like Dr. Han because surgeons scared everyone.

Nicole showed up halfway down the corridor because of course she did.

She had a visitor badge slapped crookedly on her sweatshirt and murder in her eyes.

“You said stay in the lobby,” I hissed.

“And you said records erased, which sounded like an invitation to escalate.”

Dr. Han looked between us. “Who is this?”

“My best friend.”

“Her security consultant,” Nicole added.

“You are not a security consultant.”

“I consult on security all the time. Mostly by asking why men are standing too close to us.”

Frank opened the security room door and blinked at the three of us. “This about ICU?”

“Yes,” Dr. Han said.

He sighed. “Figured.”

The room held a wall of monitors, two chairs, and enough tangled cords to prove technology hated us all. Frank sat and pulled up the ICU camera logs.

“Hallway outside 412,” Dr. Han said. “Two-thirty to three-thirty this morning.”

Frank clicked.

The screen played normal footage at first. Empty hallway. A nurse passing with medication. Lights dimmed.

Timestamp: 02:58:11.

Then static.

Gray-black snow filled the screen.

Nicole crossed her arms. “That’s convenient.”

Frank scrubbed forward.

Static.

Static.

Static.

Then the hallway returned.

Timestamp: 03:24:39.

Room 412’s door stood open.

No patient.

No staff.

Nothing.

I gripped the back of Frank’s chair. “Where’s the footage between?”

“Corrupted,” Frank said.

“From just that camera?”

He didn’t answer.

“Frank.”

He clicked through the other feeds.

Elevators: static from 02:58 to 03:24.

Stairwell: static.

ICU desk: frozen image of the nurse typing, not moving for twenty-six minutes.

Emergency exit: black screen.

Loading dock: no recording available.

Nicole leaned closer. “That’s not corruption. That’s erasure.”

Frank glanced at her. “You IT?”

“No. I’m suspicious and literate.”

Dr. Han’s face had gone very still. “Were any doors opened during that time?”

“No alarms logged.”

“Badge scans?”

Frank pulled up another screen.

The access log listed normal staff activity.

Then at 03:17, one line appeared.

AUTHORIZED EXIT — SERVICE ELEVATOR — USER: D. WILLIAMS

My stomach dropped through the floor.

Nicole said, “Absolutely fucking not.”

Dr. Han turned to me.

I stared at the screen. “I wasn’t here.”

“I know,” she said.

“I was home.”

“I know.”

“With her.”

Nicole lifted a hand. “I can confirm. She snored once and denied it in her sleep.”

“I do not snore.”

“Not the time, babe.”

Frank looked uncomfortable. “System says your badge opened the service elevator.”

“My badge was in my apartment.”

Nicole’s voice went deadly calm. “So either your system is wrong, or someone is framing her.”

The room went silent.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

My mouth went dry before I even looked.

One image.

Room 412.

Empty bed.

Bent rail.

On the whiteboard, written in black marker, were two words that had not been there five minutes ago.

SHE SIGNED.

Nicole leaned in and read it.

Dr. Han read it too.

Frank whispered, “What the hell?”

My wrist burned so sharply I gasped.

Somewhere above us, the hospital lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then every monitor in the security room went black.