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Chapter 4 - The quiet end

The hospital corridor was washed in white.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting off polished floors, the smell of antiseptic lingering thick in the air. Monitors beeped steadily behind closed doors. Nurses moved briskly, charts tucked under their arms, voices low but urgent.

Kamin walked among them.

Scrubs. Surgical cap. Mask covering half his face. To anyone watching, he was just another doctor finishing a long shift.

But his eyes missed nothing.

Last night, on call.

"We've received information," the voice had said through the secure line.

"Peter has ordered his hitman to kill a man currently admitted in a hospital.

That man is a witness to Peter's crimes.

Before the hitman kills him—catch him."

Kamin's steps were unhurried, natural. His posture relaxed, shoulders loose. But his mind was sharp, every sense alert. He scanned reflections in glass panels, noted footsteps behind him, measured distances between doors.

Normal so far.

A doctor laughed softly with a nurse near the station. A patient's family argued in hushed tones by the elevator. A stretcher rushed past, wheels squeaking, urgency written across everyone's faces.

Busy. Real. Untouched.

Kamin passed each corner deliberately, his gaze sweeping over faces—doctors, nurses, visitors. Anyone could be the hitman. Anyone could be carrying a gun beneath a coat, a knife beneath calm.

He noticed them then.

A nurse who stood too straight.

A doctor whose eyes moved too often.

An orderly whose hand brushed his earpiece for just a second too long.

Police.

They were scattered carefully, blended into the rhythm of the hospital. Kamin didn't acknowledge them, but he knew—they were working the same perimeter, guarding every possible route to the witness's room.

Together, they were a net.

Still, Kamin didn't relax.

That was when something small caught his attention.

Near the waiting area, an old woman sat in a wheelchair. Her hands trembled as she leaned forward, reaching for a handkerchief that had slipped from her grasp and fallen to the floor.

She tried again.

Missed.

Her breath hitched with effort.

Kamin slowed.

He could have walked past. Should have, maybe. Every second mattered tonight. Every distraction carried risk.

But he didn't.

He turned and stepped toward her instead.

Then—

thud.

A sudden collision.

Kamin instinctively reached out. "I'm sorry," he said, steady and calm, already crouching to gather what had spilled across the floor—cleaning tools, folded cloths, a small metal cart rattling softly.

The maintenance staff member was dressed in orange, helmet low, face hidden behind a mask. He bowed slightly, grateful, muttered something Kamin didn't quite catch, then pushed the cart away.

His gaze turned back to the old lady, struggling to pick her handkerchief up. He walked over, picked it up, and placed it gently in her palm.

She smiled at him, warm and grateful.

He returned it—a small, polite curve of his lips, barely visible beneath the mask. Then his earpiece crackled.

"The witness is being transferred. On wheelchair. Keep your eyes open."

Everything sharpened.

Kamin straightened instantly. So did the others—doctors who weren't doctors, nurses who weren't nurses. Their movements were subtle, coordinated, practiced.

The patient emerged moments later, surrounded by a doctor and a nurse. Pale. Still, mask in place. The wheelchair rolled forward, slow and deliberate.

This was it.

Kamin walked parallel to them, eyes flicking over every face, every hand, every shadow. He caught the reflections in glass walls, tracked footsteps behind him, listened for anything—anything—out of place.

Nothing.

The corridor remained ordinary. Painfully ordinary.

They reached the new room. The wheelchair stopped. The patient was wheeled inside. One of the disguised detectives followed, the door closing behind them with a soft, final click.

Safe.

Too safe.

Kamin's brows knit together. His jaw tightened.

This should have been the moment for the hitman, but he let it slip? Too quiet. Too suspicious.

And then, his earpiece crackled again. This time, the voice on the other end wasn't controlled.

"The witness—"

"The witness is—"

"...dead."

The word landed like ice in his chest.

Kamin's eyes widened, just a fraction. His breath stilled. Then his body moved before the shock could fully settle.

He broke into a run.

The room was chaos when he burst inside.

Doctors stood frozen, hands clutching their heads. Nurses spoke over each other, voices trembling. One doctor hovered over the patient, checking vitals again and again, as if repetition might change reality.

It didn't.

The witness lay motionless.

Gone.

Kamin stood there, staring.

Slowly, he reached up and pulled the mask from his face.

His expression didn't crack—but something dark flickered behind his eyes. Confusion. Frustration. A creeping, unbearable realization.

They had watched him the entire time.

Every second.

Every step.

And still— defeated.

Outside, at the far end of the hospital grounds, a maintenance worker walked through the automatic doors.

Orange uniform. Helmet low. Mask still on.

Fadel didn't look back.

He walked.

No rush.

No glance over his shoulder.

No confirmation needed.

His steps were unhurried. Precise. As if nothing inside that building concerned him anymore.

The night air swallowed him whole.

Cold. Silent. Final.

He had done his job, the rest was not his business at all.

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