Chapter Two: New Blood

Hospitals never really sleep. Even at 3 a.m., something always hums—whether it’s the constant drip of IVs, the faint whirr of ventilators, or the low murmur of distant voices filtering through walls. The night shift was a world apart, a strange twilight zone where time folded in on itself, and reality blurred at the edges.

Aditya Menon adjusted the too-loose lanyard around his neck again, tugging at the hospital ID that felt heavier than his own skin. First night shift. His stomach churned, not just from nerves but the sterile smell that clung to everything — disinfectant, antiseptic, a clinical scent that seemed to seep into the very walls. It made him feel hollow, like breathing in emptiness.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as he shuffled through the cramped lab space, a maze of blood samples, test tubes, and glowing monitors. He tried to ignore the distant clatter of footsteps echoing in the hallways and the low buzz of machines, but the hospital’s pulse was relentless, omnipresent.

“You’re late,” a voice said quietly from behind the sorting counter.

Aditya jumped slightly and turned. There stood Ravi Sen—thin, pale, wearing an oversized gray sweater that swallowed him whole. His hair was disheveled, and behind thick glasses, his eyes held a wary intelligence. He wasn’t unfriendly, but there was a distance in the way he moved, a guardedness.

“Sorry,” Aditya muttered. “Got lost in radiology. Ended up in the maternity ward. Very awkward.”

Ravi gave the smallest hint of a smile. “Don’t worry. Everyone gets lost here. The hospital was built in phases. The east wing’s a maze.”

Aditya glanced around the dimly lit room. It was cluttered but oddly comforting — papers stacked in corners, sticky notes plastered everywhere, a small, cracked coffee mug perched on the edge of a desk. It had character, a quiet resilience.

“So, are the rumors true?” Aditya’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if the walls might listen. “You know… about the archives? About the doctor who—”

A door opened behind them.

They both turned sharply.

Dr. Veer Malhotra stepped inside, his presence immediate and magnetic. Coffee in hand, crisp coat, perfect posture. His smile was calm but carried an edge, like he was always three steps ahead.

“Gentlemen,” Veer said smoothly. “You two bonding already?”

Ravi lowered his eyes slightly but nodded. “Just explaining the layout.”

Veer’s gaze lingered on Aditya for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes were calm, unreadable. “Welcome to the graveyard shift, Aditya. You’ll find it... enlightening.”

Aditya swallowed hard and nodded quickly.

Veer gave a subtle smile. “First night’s always strange. The building has a memory. It watches.”

With that cryptic remark, Veer turned and walked away, the scent of antiseptic and something floral trailing behind him like a ghost.

2:57 a.m.

Ravi was deep in diagnostics, the hum of machines blending with the quiet shuffles of the few remaining night staff. Aditya had drifted off again — supposed to be helping with lab logistics, but curiosity was a stronger force than protocol.

The east wing called to him. Older corridors, peeling paint, and the faint echo of footsteps long past. He hesitated near the old records room, the door slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness spilling into the hallway.

Then he heard voices.

Two voices.

Low. Urgent.

He crept closer, heart pounding.

“…she said she was leaving. She can’t leave,” one voice said—calm, but with an edge like a blade sharpened on stone.

Then, a noise—a sharp, sudden sound. Like a struggle.

Aditya froze.

He leaned forward just enough for the door to creak under his weight.

The voices stopped.

Footsteps approached quickly.

His breath hitched.

He turned to leave but caught a glimpse of a shadow moving just inside the room—quick, fleeting.

Suddenly, a voice, cold but familiar.

“Hello?”

It was Dr. Veer.

Aditya’s heart slammed in his chest. Panic surged.

He turned and ran.

4:15 a.m.

They found Aditya collapsed in the stairwell, a pool of cold concrete beneath him.

Head injury. Cardiac arrest.

“Must’ve slipped,” someone murmured. “Terrible accident.”

Veer stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes lowered. The hospital buzzed softly on, indifferent.

Ravi, pale and silent, looked from the limp hand to Veer’s pristine shoes—untouched, clean.

The hospital whispered around them, a dark secret hiding in its depths.

The days that followed were heavy with silence.

The hospital issued a brief statement:

“Accidental death. Tragic fall. A young technician, barely twenty-four. Our thoughts are with his family.”

No mention of the rumors.

No mention of the dark corners hiding in the night.

Detective Aryan Khatri had seen silence weaponized before.

The morgue was colder than necessary. Always was.

The coroner, a woman who had worked more murders than birthdays, handed him the autopsy report with a look that said everything.

“No clear defensive wounds,” she said, voice low. “But look here—at the base of the skull.”

Aryan leaned closer.

A thin fracture. Subtle. Too perfect.

Like someone had known exactly where to strike.

“He didn’t fall,” she muttered. “Not naturally.”

She handed him another file.

“There’s more.”

Aryan examined the fingernails—traces of fabric, synthetic blend.

“Hospital uniform?” he asked.

She nodded grimly.

He said nothing for a moment, then: “Pull up the file on Dr. Ananya Mehra.”

She hesitated. “The suicide?”

“The suicide,” he echoed, voice low, almost bitter. The word sounded like a bad joke.

Back at the hospital, Nurse Sara D’Mello stared at her locker.

Another note.

Slipped through the vents this time.

This one was different—handwritten. Block letters. Neat. Deliberate.

You saw too much. And now another one is gone.

She tore it into pieces before anyone else could see.

Her hands trembled.

Ravi barely spoke after Aditya’s death.

Not to the nurses, not to the admin, not even to Veer.

Veer had approached him the night before, voice soft, eyes shadowed.

“He was young,” Veer said quietly. “Bright. We’ll make sure he’s remembered.”

Ravi only nodded, but behind his eyes, something was shifting. Gears grinding, trying to piece together fragments of a night that had slipped through his mind like smoke.

The cold tile.

The antiseptic scent.

Something faintly floral.

A shadow.

A whisper.

A glimpse of Ananya’s kitchen cabinets, open, like someone had been searching.

He knew something now.

He just didn’t know what.

Later that week, Detective Aryan arrived under the guise of reviewing old patient records.

He flashed his credentials once, found doors quietly opening.

The administration didn’t like it, but no one told him to leave. Not yet.

He spoke to everyone, slowly, casually.