Chapter 5 – “The Silence Between Screams”

The fluorescent lights in the hospital hummed with a dull persistence. Detective Aryan Rao stood in front of the nurses’ station, his eyes following the busy rhythm of the floor. Somewhere between the shuffle of nurses, the muffled groans of patients, and the soft whir of machines, something felt off—too synchronized, too clean. It was like watching a dance performed by people who had learned the choreography too well.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from a contact in Mumbai.

“No employment records for Veer Sharma at St. Mary’s. He was never on staff. Resigned before official onboarding. Quiet exit.”

Aryan’s brow furrowed. That made the third hospital with missing or inconsistent records. But it wasn’t just the absences that worried him—it was the deliberate neatness, like someone had erased the smudges too carefully.

He made a note: Cross-reference HR directors – missing files – timeline matches Ananya’s transfer.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat.

Sara stood there, glancing around before slipping him a folded paper towel. Aryan opened it. Inside, scribbled in hurried ink, were four words:

“Storage Room. 6:45 PM.”

At exactly 6:45, Aryan nudged open the storage room door. Sara was already inside, standing beneath a single flickering bulb that cast jagged shadows against the walls stacked with unopened medical supplies.

She clutched three folded pieces of paper in her hand.

“They came to my locker,” she said quietly, handing them over. “No envelope. Just these. Always when I’m not looking.”

Aryan opened the first.

“Curiosity kills, Nurse.”

The second:

“Truth dies in silence.”

And the third:

“Let ghosts lie.”

The paper was crisp, typed. No handwriting. He held one to the light.

“Printer paper. Standard format. Any security cams near your locker?”

Sara shook her head. “Blacked out two nights in a row. Just those ten-minute gaps. Like someone knew the blind spots.”

She stepped closer. “I’ve worked here for three years. I know this hospital’s routines, its quirks, its shortcuts. But these past few weeks—it’s like someone is rearranging the walls around me.”

Aryan looked her in the eyes. “Do you think Veer is watching you?”

She hesitated. “Yes. But it’s not just watching. It’s like... he’s waiting for something.”

There was a brief silence.

“And there’s more,” Sara added. “Ananya… she kept a journal. I found a torn page once. It mentioned a patient named Arjun. Said she was worried about him. Then she stopped writing.”

Meanwhile, Ravi sat alone in the recreation room, clutching the charcoal sketch like it was a lifeline. His eyes traced the lines again and again—the hallway, the shadows, the indistinct figure.

Then it hit him—the smell. It came out of nowhere. Sharp, sterile. Antiseptic and latex. A sensory memory snapped.

He closed his eyes. Images flickered like broken film reels.

Whispered words. Cold fingers on his neck. A syringe. A soft click. The figure—moving like it belonged in the dark.

His breath quickened.

He saw the hallway again—this time darker, emptier.

At the end, a figure stood.

White coat. Black gloves. And something strange—a symbol on the sleeve. A spiral with two vertical lines. Almost like a brand.

He opened his eyes, drenched in sweat. He scrawled the symbol on the edge of the sketch before it vanished again.

At that same hour, a boy named Arjun sat quietly in the pediatric wing.

He was small for his age—pale, with nervous eyes. He rarely spoke unless spoken to. According to his file, he had fainted twice during school assemblies. “Psychogenic,” the notes read. “Likely stress-related.”

But no one knew that Arjun remembered everything.

He remembered the face of the woman who had spoken kindly to him in this very hospital a year ago.

Ananya.

He remembered her laughter. Her smile.

And he remembered the last time he saw her crying, pressed against the window of a locked door, as a man in a white coat led her away.

He never forgot the sound of her voice, soft and broken: “Don’t trust him.”

Now, staring at her photograph framed on the hospital memorial wall, Arjun’s hands began to tremble.

“Don’t trust who?” a calm voice said behind him.

He turned.

Dr. Veer Sharma.

“I see you’re looking at Ananya. She was… deeply empathetic. A rare trait these days,” Veer said, placing a hand on Arjun’s shoulder.

Arjun flinched violently.

Veer’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re safe here now,” he said softly.

But Arjun didn’t feel safe. Not even close.

In the basement, behind layers of security clearance, Veer entered his private office. He locked the door, lowered the blinds, and powered on an unlisted terminal.

He typed into the system: “Case File: Roy, Nisha.”

ACCESS DENIED.

He smiled faintly. Then pulled a paper folder from the drawer.

Contents:

• A transfer letter signed under a false name.

• Photos of Ananya with timestamps.

• Surveillance stills from various angles.

• A list of deleted files—Ravi’s intake report, incident logs, and one redacted image labeled “Unidentified Mark: L-11 Incident.”

He whispered to himself:

“They keep digging. But the deeper they go, the more they choke. Truth isn’t what you find. It’s what I let remain. What I leave behind.”

He deleted two more patient files, one of them marked “Arjun Desai – Initial Notes.”

Back in Aryan’s apartment later that night, the detective’s thoughts were spiraling.

Too many threads. Too many missing pieces.

Veer’s spotless reputation didn’t match the whispers.

Ananya’s death wasn’t suicide—he was convinced now.

Sara was being watched.

Ravi remembered something.

And Arjun... he was the outlier. The unexpected variable.

The puzzle was reshaping itself.

Then—a soft sound at his door.

Not a knock. A shuffle.

He rose cautiously, gun holstered at his hip, and opened the door.

No one.

But on the floor—a manila envelope.

No return address. No postage.

He opened it carefully.

Inside:

• A photo of Ananya—face swollen, eyes red, clutching the same pendant Arjun now held.

• A note:

“She knew too much.

How long until you do?”

Aryan stared at the photo, stomach turning.

There was something else tucked behind it.

A hospital visitor’s pass. Expired. But with a name: Nisha Roy.

He picked up his phone, heart racing.

“Sara,” he said. “We need to find that journal. And we need to keep Arjun safe.”

Her voice on the other end was trembling.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she whispered. “The security feed in the pediatrics wing was wiped. From last night. Every single second.”

End of Chapter 5.

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