​The sliding glass doors of St. Jude’s Hospital didn't just open for Dr. Felix; they seemed to usher him in like a guest of honor. At twenty-eight, Felix was the picture of pure, unadulterated ambition, his white coat still crisp and devoid of the yellowing wear that plagued the veterans. He didn't just walk the halls; he vibrated through them, a human tuning fork of optimism in a building defined by sickness.

​"Good morning, Marcus! How’s the knee holding up after that surgery?" Felix called out, pausing to clap a hand on the shoulder of one of the senior janitors.

​Marcus looked up, startled that a doctor—let alone a specialist—remembered his name. "Getting there, Doc. Slow and steady."

​"That’s the spirit. If you need a refill on those anti-inflammatories, come find me in Anesthesiology," Felix winked, moving on before Marcus could even say thank you.

​By the end of his first month, Felix was the "Golden Boy." He was the first to offer a coffee to a nurse who had pulled a double shift and the last to leave the bedside of a terrified child facing their first surgery. His bedside manner wasn't just a skill; it was a performance.

​"You make it look too easy, Felix," Nurse Sarah whispered as they stood over a patient in the pre-op bay.

​Felix checked the vitals, his fingers dancing over the monitor with practiced grace. "It’s not work if you love the puzzle, Sarah. Every patient is a different lock. I just have to find the right key to put them to sleep safely."

​But his rapid ascent didn't sit well with everyone. In the corner of the surgical lounge, Dr. Vane sat like a shadow cast by the vending machine. Vane was twenty years Felix’s senior, a man whose hands had begun to develop a microscopic tremor he masked with heavy rings. He watched the way the staff gravitated toward Felix, a bitter fire sparking in his chest. To Vane, Felix wasn't a prodigy; he was a reminder of everything Vane had lost: relevance, steady nerves, and the spotlight.

​On a quiet public holiday, the hospital felt hollow, the usual roar of activity dampened to a low hum. Felix sat hunched over a stack of charts in his small, dimly lit office, the blue light of the computer screen making him look ghostly. A floorboard creaked. Felix turned to find Vane standing in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the hall light.

​"You’re working too late, Felix," Vane said, his voice dripping with a forced, oily concern.

​Felix smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes this time. "Just finishing the Sterling report, Dr. Vane. Accuracy is everything, right?"

​Vane stepped into the room, the smell of stale tobacco and antiseptic clinging to him. He leaned over Felix’s desk, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "Be careful, boy. Those who fly very high tend to burn down their own wings. And when you fall in a place like this, there’s no one at the bottom to catch you."

​The next morning, the clinical silence of St. Jude’s was shattered by a scream that echoed from the basement level. The "Golden Boy" aura vanished as a nightmare took its place.

​Mr. Sterling, the billionaire philanthropist whose heart had finally failed him the night before, was gone. Not moved, not transferred—gone. The morgue slab was a cold, empty slab of stainless steel, the white sheet that should have covered him crumpled on the floor like a discarded skin.

​"How does a six-foot-four man simply evaporate?" the Hospital Director, Dr. Aris, bellowed. He paced the morgue’s tile floor, his face a frantic shade of purple. "The Sterling family is arriving in exactly twenty-four hours for a state funeral. Julian Sterling is already on a private jet. If that body isn't back on this slab by dawn, St. Jude’s is finished!"

​Felix stood by the door, his throat tight. He had been the last one to see Sterling’s body after the pronouncement of death. He looked toward Vane, who was leaning casually against the cooling units, a faint, inscrutable smirk playing on his lips.

​"Perhaps he checked himself out, Director," Vane remarked dryly. "Miracles happen in hospitals every day."

​"This isn't a joke, Vane!" Aris snapped. "Felix, you were on duty. Who had access?"

​"Everyone with a keycard, sir," Felix said, his voice trembling slightly. "But the security cameras in the hall... they were looping. Someone bypassed the feed at 3:00 AM."

​The weight of the situation was suffocating. Mr. Sterling and his son, Julian, were legendary for their public image of being "kind and loving" benefactors. But everyone in the high-society circles knew the truth: the Sterlings were litigious, powerful, and possessed of a vengeful streak that could level a city block.

​"Search every inch of this ward," Aris ordered, pointing a shaking finger at Felix. "Check the incinerators, the laundry chutes, the service elevators. If word of this leaks to the press before we find him, I’ll make sure none of you ever practice medicine again."

​As the Director stormed out, Vane walked past Felix, pausing just long enough to brush his shoulder. "Told you, Felix. The higher you fly, the harder the ground feels. I wonder... what would a man like Julian Sterling do to the doctor who 'lost' his father?"

​Felix watched Vane walk away, a cold realization dawning on him. This wasn't just a theft. It was a burial—not for Mr. Sterling, but for Felix’s career. He had twenty-four hours to find a corpse, or he would become the next ghost of Ward 13.

(⁠✷⁠‿⁠✷⁠)(⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>(⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>(⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)(⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠><⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)(⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)(⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

​The confrontation in the hospital lobby was not a private affair. Dr. Vane had waited until the shift change, ensuring a full audience of nurses and interns. He stepped into Felix’s path, his voice carrying with calculated authority.

​"The facts are simple, Director," Vane said, turning his back on Felix to address Dr. Aris. "Felix was the only one on duty in this sector last night. He was the one obsessed with the Sterling file. If that body isn’t found, our hospital’s image—and our accreditation—is ruined. It’s on his head."

​Felix felt the heat of a dozen stares. "I didn't move that body, Vane. You were in my office last night. You saw me working!"

​"I saw you acting erratic, Felix," Vane countered, his eyes glinting with malice.

​Director Aris didn't look up from his watch. "Felix, I don't care about the 'how' right now. I care about the 'where.' You have exactly twenty-four hours to find Mr. Sterling. If you fail, you will lose your medical license and face criminal charges for the desecration of a corpse. Get to work."

​Desperate and feeling the walls close in, Felix retreated to the morgue. He knew he was being framed, but he needed proof. He began to examine the room with the precision of a surgeon, looking for anything out of place. While leaning against a heavy industrial shelf to catch his breath, he felt it—a sharp, icy draft hitting the back of his neck.

​"There's no ventilation on this wall," he whispered.

​With a grunt of effort, he shoved the metal shelving aside. The screech of steel on tile echoed in the empty room, revealing a rusted, iron-heavy door. It shouldn't have been there. It led to Ward 13—the "Old Wing"—a section of St. Jude’s that had been sealed and forgotten after a catastrophic fire twenty years ago.

​Felix grabbed a heavy flashlight and pulled the handle. The hinges groaned like a dying animal, and as the door swung open, the smell of ancient soot and damp rot filled his lungs. He stepped over the threshold, leaving the modern world behind for a tomb of ash.

(⁠θ⁠‿⁠θ⁠)(⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)(⁠ʘ⁠ᴗ⁠ʘ⁠✿⁠)(⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)(⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ<⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)(⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)(⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)