“Six minutes,” I confirm quietly.
“Yeah.” He clicks into the room usage history. “But there’s no scheduled consult. No entry request logged. No override.”
He scrolls further, frowning.
“What about the page?” I ask.
He switches windows, scanning the communication dashboard. “I’m not seeing it here,” he admits. “Your pager ID hasn’t received anything from surgical dispatch since yesterday.”
“That’s not possible,” I reply evenly. “I read it.”
He glances at me quickly, then back to the screen, uncomfortable now. “Maybe it came from an external routing system?”
“Would that log here?”
“It should,” he answers. “Unless someone spoofed it.”
Spoofed.I don’t like the sound of that.
He clicks into system diagnostics. “There’s no breach alert,” he continues. “No abnormal access attempts. No forced door.”
“What about the door lock itself?” I press. “Could it malfunction?”
He shakes his head. “Those locks are on a closed circuit. If there’s an error, it logs automatically.”
He turns the monitor slightly so I can see more clearly. Rows of timestamps and green checkmarks fill the screen.
“All green,” he says. “Everything looks normal.”
Normal.My fingers curl slightly against the edge of his desk. I loosen them deliberately.
“Could someone with administrative credentials generate a page without leaving a trace?” I ask.
He hesitates. He grinds his back teeth. “In theory, yes. But they’d need high-level access. That’s restricted to department heads and network supervisors.”
“How many people is that?”
“Six,” he answers after a moment. “Maybe seven.”
I nod once. “Thank you.”
He studies my face carefully, like he wants to ask more but knows better. “Should I flag this?”
“No,” I reply. “I just wanted confirmation.”
I step back from his desk, the cold air suddenly more noticeable against my skin. As I reach the door, I feel his eyes follow me. I don’t look back.
Someone accessed a restricted room. Someone locked it behind me. Someone routed a page without a trace. And someone knew enough about my routines to send it during peak activity, when I wouldn’t question its legitimacy.
I press the elevator button and wait, watching the numbers descend. Our reflections stare back at us from the mirrored doors. I look composed. Leo looks unchanged.
The doors open with a soft chime, and we step inside together. Leo reaches past me to press the trauma floor button before I can.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
I keep my eyes on the closing doors. “The consult didn’t exist.”
His posture changes slightly, subtle but alert. “Explain.”
