“The room was empty,” I continue evenly. “No chart. No patient. The lock engaged after I stepped inside.”
“And?”
“No phone signal. No dial tone.”
The elevator continues its smooth descent.
“And someone spoke to you,” he states. It’s not a question or a guess.
“Yes.”
His eyebrows draw together, the movement slight but unmistakable.
“What did he say?”
“That the hospital is accessible.”
The word hangs between us in the enclosed space.
Leo’s eyes harden. “Did he threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“He made it clear they can reach me here.” I draw in a slow breath that doesn’t quite fill my lungs.
“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?” he asks.
I meet his eyes in the reflection of the mirrored wall.
“Because I wanted to confirm it wasn’t a system error first.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t.”
The elevator slows.
“They’re probing,” Leo says quietly. “This is escalation.”
“Yes.”
The doors slide open, and the noise of the trauma floor rushes in.
“Does Kiren know?” he asks.
“He will.”
Leo nods once.
The trauma bay chaos swallows us whole. A stretcher rolls past, wheels squeaking. A nurse calls out a blood pressure reading. The scent of antiseptic and sweat replaces the chill of the IT office. The hospital looks exactly the same, yet it feels nothing like it did this morning.
The rest of my shift unfolds in fragments. I stitch a laceration while replaying the tone of the voice. I adjust medication orders while mapping potential access points in my head. I reassure a patient’s mother while scanning the hallway behind her.
Hypervigilance settles into my muscles like a wire pulled too tight. A dropped metal tray sends a clang through the corridor, and my shoulders tighten instantly. A code announcement crackles over the intercom, and my pulse jumps before mybrain processes the location. When I wash my hands at the scrub sink, the water feels hotter than usual.
Accessible.The word doesn’t leave me.
