“BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!”

  The blaring alarm screams like a banshee, dragging me from a restless sleep and slicing through my skull like a relentless jackhammer. Shrill, mechanical, unrelenting.

  “BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!”

  I come to slowly, my skull pounding with a familiar, punishing rhythm. A hangover blooms behind my eyes like fire – a not so gentle reminder of last night’s poor choices.

  “BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!”

  My mouth feels dry like sandpaper, with the taste of stale beer clinging to my tongue. I lift my head and force my eyes open, squinting against the harsh afternoon light streaming through the window. My stomach starts to turn, so I close my eyes again and lay my head back down on the pillow. The air is heavy with the remnants of last night’s activities, and every breath seems to worsen the queasiness. Maybe today is the day I'll finally muster the courage to call in sick.

  “BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!”

  That thought quickly dissolves as I remember the bills piling up. I force my eyes to open again and turn to look at the alarm clock. It’s 3PM, which for me might as well be the crack of dawn.

  “I sure can’t wait for another wonderful day at St. Vincent’s,” I mumble to myself, the thought of another shift weighing heavily on my mind.

  “BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!”

  “Alright! I’m awake!” I groan, slamming my hand down on the alarm.

  I peel myself out of bed, swinging my legs over the side. The room spins slightly, but I rub the sleep from my eyes and push myself to my feet. Stumbling forward, I nearly trip over a discarded pizza box on the floor, a greasy reminder of last night’s indulgence. My bedroom is a disaster zone: clothes scattered haphazardly, empty beer bottles rolling around like tumbleweeds, and the lingering smell of stale cigarettes and regret hanging in the air. The faded posters on the walls, remnants of a time when I had dreams and aspirations, mock me with their silent reminders of a more hopeful past.

  Each step feels like trudging through quicksand, my body protesting every movement. I make my way to the bathroom and flick on the light. The bulb flickers before settling into a weak, steady glow, revealing a bathroom as neglected as my bedroom—cracked tiles, chipped paint, and a mirror speckled with age spots and streaks. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wince. I've seen better days myself.

  I lean in, touching the dark circles under my bloodshot eyes. They look even worse up close, like bruises painted from sleepless nights and too many drinks. The green in my eyes seems duller, clouded with fatigue. My face is gaunt, deep lines etched into my skin. My stubble has grown into a patchy, unkempt beard, and my brown hair sticks out in all directions. I run my fingers through it, feeling the greasy strands slide between them. I've let myself go, to say the least. I look like I've been put through the wringer.

  I turn the faucet on, splashing cold water on my face in a futile attempt to wake up and shake off the fog. The water drips down my face as I stare at my reflection, and I can’t help but wonder how I ended up here and if I’ll ever find a way out.

  I’m still dressed in last night’s clothes, a pair of worn-out jeans and a grey T-shirt. Around my neck my I.D. tag for work hangs from a lanyard, the only piece of work attire that had lasted through last night’s debauchery. I glance down at my I.D. card, the small photograph staring back at me with an almost mocking sense of familiarity. The image shows a younger, more optimistic version of myself, clean-shaven with neatly combed hair and bright eyes. The name "Jack Malone" stands out in bold letters below the photo.

  "Yep, Jack Malone, that's me," I mutter to myself. "Employee of the year." A sarcastic chuckle escapes my lips as I think, “Well, at least this job will never divorce me.”

  It's been a whirlwind couple of years. The divorce hit me harder than I’d anticipated. I used to think it was cliché to call it 'irreconcilable differences,' but there we were—unable to find any common ground anymore. My wife, Emily, and I had once been inseparable, best friends who laughed at the same jokes and dreamed the same dreams. But over time, we grew apart, drifting like two ships in the night, each caught in our own currents. The arguments got uglier, words sharper, and eventually, it was clear that neither of us could keep pretending. Emily deserved more than the shadow of a man I'd become, and I knew it.

  The papers were signed, and just like that, a chapter of my life ended. I moved out and lost my position as a mechanic, a job I’d held for years and thought I’d never leave. I landed the job at St. Vincent’s Medical Center as a custodian, trying to piece my life back together. It was tough to face the reality that my life was falling apart on multiple fronts. Honestly between the long hours and the loneliness, every night feels like a battle against the ghosts of what was, and every morning is another reminder that I'm just trying to survive one day at a time.

  Now, at 35, I'm living in the basement of my high school best friend, Evan. It’s not the best feeling, to say the least. There's a certain sting in knowing that while others my age are settling down, I'm here, trying to find my footing again.

  I take a final glance at my reflection before turning off the flickering bathroom light. Each step out of the bathroom feels heavy, my feet dragging slightly as I make my way through the cluttered basement. The wooden stairs creak under my weight as I ascend, the dim light from above casting long, flickering shadows. As I reach the top of the stairs, I hear rapid keystrokes and animated explosions. I open the door to the living room and find Evan hunched over his computer desk, completely engrossed in a video game as usual. The screen's glow highlights his long unkempt curly hair, as well as the chaos on his desk.

  Evan's desk is a blend of high-tech gaming gear and quirky personal touches. His sleek black gaming rig hums softly, adorned with colorful LED lights, and multiple monitors display his gameplay. Scattered around are his gaming essentials: a backlit mechanical keyboard, a high-precision gaming mouse, and a set of quality headphones. Amidst the tech, his desk is cluttered with crystals and polished stones. There is an assortment of small potted plants, some of them drooping and clinging to life. Sage and incense sticks lay near an ashtray, accompanied by some leftover joints and a bong. It adds a faint earthy and a sort of ‘herbal’ scent to the room. A teetering stack of worn comic books and sci-fi novels sits in one corner, alongside action figures locked in battle. The organized chaos perfectly reflects Evan, a blend of hippie ambiance and nerdy enthusiasm.

  "Hey, morning," I mumble, trying to shake off the lingering remnants of sleep.

  Evan glances up briefly, his eyes still glued to the screen. "Ah, the nocturnal creature emerges," he says with a wry smile. "Sleep well in your crypt? Coffee's on the counter, though it might have turned into a sentient being by now."

  "Thanks, I think," I reply, moving towards the kitchen area.

  Evan chuckles, his attention already back on his game. "No problem, man. Just remember, the universe flows through all of us. And, uh, don't trip over the peace lily again, it's been through enough."

  Evan Buckley. Always a bit of an oddball, but one of the best people I’ve ever known. Our friendship started back in high school, freshman year—back when the world still felt like it might give us a fair shot.

  Even then, Evan stood out. His parents encouraged him to “be his truest self,” which, for Evan, meant dressing like a sentient lava lamp. Tie-dye shirts that looked like they’d been spun in a cosmic whirlpool. Mismatched socks that had no business sharing the same outfit. And around his neck, a rotating selection of crystal necklaces—amethyst, obsidian, quartz. He said they helped him “align his energy.”

  Naturally, he was a magnet for the school bullies.

  I remember the first time I saw them messing with him. It was outside the cafeteria. Three of them had him cornered by the vending machines.

  “Damn, Buckley,” said Troy Carson, the ringleader. Tall, stocky, all bark and just enough bite to be dangerous. “Did you raid a clown’s closet this morning, or did your mom just lose a bet?”

  Cody Bryant, always the parrot, snickered. “Seriously, what’s with all the sparkly rocks? You casting spells or something? Gonna hex us with your moon crystals?”

  Lenny Griggs, the quiet one with a mean streak, just stood there chewing gum, smirking like Evan was some kind of joke playing out just for his amusement.

  Evan didn’t say a word. He never did. Just stood there, clutching his backpack straps, eyes fixed on the floor.

  Something in me snapped.

  “Hey!” I barked, striding over without thinking. “Why don’t you assholes pick on someone who might actually give a shit?”

  They all turned, caught off guard by the interruption. Troy squared up, puffing out his chest like a second-rate alpha.

  “This ain’t your business, Malone,” he said. “Why don’t you mind your own?”

  “Yeah, well, it is now,” I shot back. “So unless you want to see what my boot tastes like, I’d suggest backing the hell off.”

  There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for me to wonder if I was about to get my ass kicked.

  Then Troy laughed—forced, empty—and motioned to the others. “Whatever. Freaks stick together, I guess.”

  They walked off, shoulders hunched like dogs denied a meal.

  I turned to Evan. He looked up slowly, blinking like he couldn’t believe what just happened.

  “Thanks, Jack,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “I owe you one.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I told him. “Just stick with me from now on.”

  And he did. From that day on, we were inseparable. Gaming marathons, deep dives into comic book lore, stargazing from his rooftop, high as hell on bad weed and teenage philosophy. While everyone else was busy trying to fit in, Evan was busy figuring out how the universe worked—and dragging me along for the ride.

  Yeah, he’s still weird. Still wears crystals, still burns sage, still says things like “you gotta listen to your spirit gut.” But he’s never once let me down. And in a life that’s been full of collapse, Evan’s been my one unshakable constant. Living in his basement isn’t exactly the dream, but having a friend like Evan? It makes the nightmares a little easier to survive.

  I grab a cup of the now cold coffee from the counter and take a sip, making a face as the bitter taste hits my tongue. As I turn to leave the kitchen, Evan suddenly pauses his game and swivels his chair around to face me.

  “Well, now that the elusive Jack Malone graces us with his presence,” Evan says with a raised eyebrow, “we need to talk about the rent, man.”

  I sigh, already knowing where this is headed. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to get that to you.”

  Evan exhales dramatically and turns back to his monitors, fingers clacking against the keyboard like they’ve got something personal against him. “Look, I get it. Times are tough, cosmic energies are misaligned, your aura’s probably clogged with beer foam. But you’ve been behind for months now. I can’t keep floating you.”

  Guilt punches a hole straight through my chest. He’s right. Evan’s been more than generous — more patient than most would be. “I promise I’ll get it to you soon. Work’s been a mess. Haven’t had anything steady.”

  He finally looks over at me, his expression caught somewhere between concern and frustration. “Jack, man... this isn’t sustainable. And honestly? You might have more cash if you didn’t spend half your nights at that bar.”

  I wince. “I know. It’s just... it’s been my way of coping.”

  Evan shakes his head. “Dude, I’m your friend. I care about you. But drowning your trauma in booze isn’t therapy. And also, my crystal collection is basically screaming every time you walk through the door. You’re giving off big-time chaotic energy.”

  Despite the weight of it all, I chuckle. “Glad to know your rocks are still brutally honest.”

  He leans back, arms folded. “I don’t want to be the bad guy here. You’re like a brother. But I need to see some effort. Something. We’ve got to sort this out.”

  I nod. “I get it. I’ll start picking up more shifts. Whatever it takes.”

  You know you’ve hit rock bottom when Evan Buckley — the guy who once burned sage before a Mario Kart tournament — is calling you out on responsibility. I never thought I’d be living in his basement, staring down overdue rent and my own failure like it’s some kind of roommate. This isn’t where I thought I’d be at thirty-five.

  And the worst part?

  It’s no one’s fault but mine.

  I take one last sip of lukewarm coffee and set the mug down with a soft clink. It leaves a ring on the counter I don’t bother wiping up. With a sigh, I grab my keys and phone from the kitchen table, pocketing both like they weigh more than they should. Time to clock in, time to keep pretending everything’s fine.

  At the door, I shove my feet into a pair of battered sneakers—the soles practically flapping at the toes—and pull it open, stepping into the morning like I’m bracing for impact.

  The light outside is soft but already too bright. Our neighborhood in Gary, Indiana greets me with the same tired scowl it wears every day. The apartment building we live in leans slightly, like it’s just about ready to give up. What’s left of the paint flakes like old sunburn. Graffiti stains the lower walls in clashing colors—tags, symbols, and sloppy declarations of love or defiance. None of it beautiful. All of it permanent.

  The sidewalk cracks under my feet, split wide with stubborn weeds pushing their way through. Nature, like everyone else here, just trying to survive. The rent’s cheap. That’s the only compliment I can give this place.

  Empty lots break up the rows of abandoned houses, rusted chain-link fences hanging like loose teeth. The bones of old factories jut up on the horizon—concrete reminders of what used to be. What was promised. What never came back.

  The streets are mostly quiet. A few cars drift by, slow and aimless. A group of teenagers lingers outside the corner store, laughing too loud, their voices echoing in the hollow space between buildings. It’s the closest thing to joy I hear around here. Across the street, two older guys sit on a stoop, chain-smoking and watching the day go nowhere. Their eyes don’t follow me. They’ve seen me before. They’ve seen everyone before.

  I make my way to my car—my four-wheeled Frankenstein’s monster. It’s a wheezing sedan with rust creeping like mold over the fenders. The paint used to be blue, maybe. Now it’s just “defeated.” The left headlight is duct-taped together like a war wound, and the bumper has long since given up on staying attached. I pull the door open and it groans like it resents being touched.

  Inside, it smells like old coffee, stale fries, and the ghosts of a hundred nights spent running from things I don’t talk about. The seats are torn. The dashboard is cracked. A spider has claimed the rearview mirror as its home, and I don’t have the heart to evict it.

  I slide behind the wheel, insert the key, and whisper a little prayer to the gods of combustion. The engine coughs once, twice, then sputters to life with a noise that makes my teeth ache. I pat the dashboard like I’m trying to keep the peace. “Not today. Just get me there, alright?”

  Across the street, Mrs. Whitaker stands at her window like she always does. Silver hair piled into a messy bun, thick glasses perched on the edge of her nose, arms crossed over a floral dress that’s older than me. Her mouth moves, probably muttering some commentary to no one. Or maybe to me. Hard to tell. I give her a half-hearted wave. She doesn’t wave back. Just turns and disappears into the gloom of her apartment like she’s seen enough.

  I sit there for a moment, hands gripping the wheel, the engine humming beneath me like a reluctant heart.

  This isn’t the life I pictured. Not even close. The neighborhood, the car, the weight in my chest—it all feels like the punchline to a joke I didn’t hear. I dream about getting out. About disappearing into a new zip code, someplace where my past can’t follow. But that kind of freedom feels like fiction.

  Right now, I’m stuck.

  Tethered by rent, by failure, by choices that seemed like survival at the time.

  I breathe in deep and try to swallow the despair that keeps climbing my throat. One step at a time, I remind myself. That’s all I can do.

  One step at a time.

  Gary, Indiana has stories buried in every block — some whispered, some screamed. As I drive through the streets, I see a city caught mid-reckoning. Rusted factories rise like dying gods in the distance, their chimneys tall and silent, watching over the skeletons of old industry. Some neighborhoods show sparks of life — fresh paint on a corner store, a renovated church, and a food truck parked where a pawn shop used to be. Others look like they’ve been forgotten entirely.

  But even here, among the cracked asphalt and sagging power lines, there are flashes of beauty. Murals bloom across brick walls in bursts of color — fists raised, birds in flight, saints with tear-streaked faces. Someone still believes in something.

  The drive to St. Vincent’s takes about twenty minutes when the roads behave. Today, traffic is light — rare, but welcome. I cruise through intersections without stopping, my car rattling over potholes like it’s just as tired of the ride as I am.

  The closer I get, the more the hospital comes into view — a patchwork titan rising from the city’s bones. St. Vincent’s looks like it was built in stages, each era leaving its mark without regard for the last. Polished glass towers jut out from weather-stained stone like afterthoughts, modern ambition clinging to an aging spine. It doesn’t blend in with the city around it. It looms. A relic wrapped in ambition, pretending to be something new.

  The entrance is alive with movement. Patients shuffle in and out beneath the awning, wheelchairs squeaking, nurses in scrubs flashing ID badges, EMTs unloading someone who’s seen better days. It’s barely controlled chaos, and everyone moves like they’ve done this a thousand times.

  I pull into the back lot and find a spot near the far edge. The engine coughs as I kill it, and I sit there for a second, letting the buzz of the hospital seep into me.

  Another day. Another shift.

  I grab my badge from the dash, clip it to my shirt, and step out into the wind.

  The walk to the entrance gives me a sliver of peace — a few seconds to pull my head together before the noise and fluorescent lights swallow the day. I take a breath, square my shoulders, and head toward the sliding glass doors of St. Vincent’s.

  Carl Jenkins is already there, leaning against the wall like a statue with attitude. Carl’s the kind of guy who looks like he’s been middle-aged since birth — tall, broad-shouldered, and built like he could still wrestle a bear if it gave him enough notice. He’s got a mustache that’s more of a lifestyle choice than facial hair — thick, bristly, and unapologetically 1975. Every day, he’s in the same dark-blue uniform that fits like a second skin and a pair of mirrored aviators that never quite leave his face, even when we’re indoors.

  “Morning, Jack,” he grunts, the words wrapped in gravel and too much black coffee.

  “Carl,” I nod, stepping past him. “The mustache still holding up under the weight of your wisdom?”

  He grins — or maybe just twitches. Hard to tell with Carl. “Barely. It’s been whispering retirement since '03, but I keep bribing it with bacon grease.”

  I chuckle. “Tell it it’s the only reason I come here.”

  Carl tilts his head, giving me that deadpan stare through the shades. “Don’t flatter it, Malone. It’s got an ego.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  We’ve been doing this routine for years now. Carl never says much, but he’s got a dry wit buried under that gruff exterior. I get the sense he’s seen more than he lets on — not just the hospital stuff, but life stuff. War, maybe. Divorce, definitely. He never talks about himself, but sometimes you don’t need to. The way someone stands tells you everything.

  Carl’s part of the furniture around here. The immovable kind. There’s comfort in that, even if it smells like menthols and old leather.

  He nods toward the automatic doors. “Try not to mop up any existential dread today.”

  “No promises,” I say, and step inside.

  The walk to the custodians' locker room takes me through the beating heart of St. Vincent’s — and some days, it feels more like a clogged artery.

  The hallway buzzes with the usual morning chaos. Nurses breeze past in polished scrubs and carefully curated scowls, their sneakers squeaking across the tile like judgment. A few glance my way like I tracked in something unclean — which, to be fair, I probably did. They move like they’ve got somewhere more important to be, which they probably do.

  Doctors stalk the corridor with purpose in every step, lab coats billowing like capes. They nod at each other, bark clipped instructions into phones, and occasionally flash that over-practiced smile reserved for higher-ups and malpractice lawyers. Their eyes flick over me like I’m a vending machine that wandered into their peripheral vision.

  Patients shuffle or roll by, some wide-eyed, some completely checked out. The sick, the anxious, the exhausted — clinging to clipboards and coffee like they’re armor. A young mother clutches her toddler’s hand. The kid’s got a stuffed dinosaur in a chokehold and a fever-glass glaze over his eyes. They pass me without a word, just another frame in the day’s footage.

  I reach the service corridor and step into the locker room — a tiled bunker tucked behind the fluorescent glow of the hospital’s public face. The walls are painted some shade of industrial sadness, and the smell of bleach never really goes away. Rows of dented lockers line the room, each one scarred with peeling name tags and duct-tape repairs.

  As I slip into my scrubs, the familiar routine settling over me like an old hoodie, I hear that unmistakable voice behind me.

  “Well, well. If it ain’t Jack ‘Bright-Eyed-and-Broke’ Malone,” Hank Morgan croaks, grinning like a man who’s been kicked in the teeth by life and learned to laugh with the gaps.

  I glance over my shoulder. Hank stands there with his shirt halfway on, belly unapologetically hanging over his waistband, a cigarette tucked behind his ear like it’s still 1972 and no one’s told him about cancer yet.

  “Ready to tackle another thrilling day of biohazards, mystery fluids, and the occasional clogged toilet from hell?” he asks, eyebrows wiggling.

  “Born ready,” I mutter. “Just brimming with existential joy.”

  He barks a laugh — the kind that rattles in his chest like gravel in a tin can. “That’s the spirit. Keep that spark alive, kid. It'll make a real pretty sound when this place crushes it out of you.”

  Hank’s in his sixties, maybe older — no one’s had the courage to ask. His hair’s gone mostly white, thick and wild like nature gave up trying to tame him. His eyes are sharp, too sharp for a man who spends most of his day elbow-deep in mop water. There’s a twinkle there that says he’s seen it all — and maybe enjoyed too much of it.

  “Hey, Hank,” I say, tugging on my shirt, “you ever think about what it’d be like to have a job that doesn’t involve cleaning human discharge off tile floors?”

  He smirks. “Yeah. It’s called retirement. But my wife says if I spend more than twenty-four hours at home, she’s legally allowed to shoot me. Something about self-defense.”

  I laugh despite myself. Hank always finds the line — and stomps right over it in steel-toed boots.

  “Besides,” he says, slapping a hand against a locker with a clang, “someone’s gotta keep this place from turning into a biohazard horror show. And who better than us?”

  Who better than us? I look around at the cracked tiles, the smell of bleach and sweat, and the peeling motivational poster about "Dignity in Service."

  God help me, I wish it was anyone else but us.

  I leave the locker room and head down the corridor, still adjusting the collar of my scrub top. The hallway stretches ahead, bathed in sterile fluorescent light, humming like it’s got secrets of its own. I round a corner too fast and nearly plow into someone.

  “Whoa—sorry—” I stop short.

  A tall figure looms in front of me, perfectly still, like he saw me coming five seconds ago and just waited.

  Dr. Alexander Thorn.

  He’s the kind of man who doesn’t just walk into a room — he enters, like a cue in a stage play. Over six feet tall, with posture so straight it looks sculpted, he wears a perfectly pressed charcoal suit beneath his white coat, the collar just barely brushing the bottom of his silver hair. Every strand is in place, combed back neatly, like not even time dares to touch it.

  His glasses glint under the hallway lights, catching the overhead glare in a way that briefly whites out his eyes. But when the angle shifts, I catch that stare — piercing blue, unblinking. Eyes that don’t just look at you. They read you.

  “Jack,” he says, giving me a small, measured nod. His voice is deep and deliberate, like every word has been through a board meeting before being spoken.

  “Hey, Doc,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just trying to keep up.”

  His lips twitch — not quite a smile. “Aren’t we all.”

  He glances at the watch on his wrist. It’s an old analog thing, silver and leather. Classic. Just like everything else about him.

  “I’d like you to stop by my office sometime this week,” he says, not quite a request. “We haven’t checked in recently. Let’s see where your head’s at.”

  “Sure,” I nod. “Whenever works.”

  Dr. Thorn is the hospital’s lead trauma surgeon — top of the food chain, medically speaking — but what most people don’t know is that he also moonlights as a part-time therapist. Or something close. For the past year, he’s been seeing me for unofficial sessions. Not exactly above board. Hypnosis, guided memory work, subconscious unpacking — he doesn’t like to label it, but it’s the kind of stuff that would get him side-eyed by half the hospital staff.

  He keeps it quiet. Says the hospital board would see it as eccentric at best. Dangerous at worst.

  Do I think it’s helping? I don’t know. Most of the sessions are a blur. I walk in, I sit down, and I walk out feeling... lighter. Sometimes disoriented. Sometimes like I’ve forgotten something important. Thorn says that’s part of the process.

  “Jack,” he says again, just as I turn to go.

  I stop and glance back.

  “One more thing. I ran into Mr. Peterson earlier — he mentioned you’re heading down to the old wing today. Dust detail, I believe.”

  My stomach tightens like a trap. “The old wing?” I ask, though I already know what he means.

  He nods slowly. “Renovations are underway. They want a walkthrough before the crew comes in.”

  A chill ripples down my spine. The old wing is... something else. A shadow version of the hospital, buried in its own outdated architecture. Narrow halls, antique doors, no working elevators. And the morgue. Always the morgue.

  “Of course,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Thorn studies me for a moment — long enough to make me feel like I’m under examination.

  “You’ll be fine,” he says finally, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve always had a strong mind, Jack. Resilient.”

  Coming from him, it feels less like a compliment and more like a challenge.

  “Thanks,” I mutter. “I’ll stop by later.”

  “Good,” he says. “I’d like to hear what you find down there.”

  Find?

  I don’t ask what he means.

  I just nod and turn down the hallway, the echo of my footsteps suddenly sounding a little too loud.

  The nervousness of being in the old wing weighs on my mind as I head to the custodian's closet, a small, cluttered room packed with cleaning supplies. The smell of disinfectants and the sight of mops, brooms, and various cleaning solutions greet me as I step inside. I grab the mop bucket, the wheels squeaking slightly as I pull it out. It's a long walk to the old wing, and each step seems to amplify my anxiety. To calm my nerves, I put in my earbuds and start playing some music, letting the familiar tunes drown out my worries. I navigate through the hallways, my mop bucket trailing behind me, its wheels creating a steady rhythm as I make my way to the old wing.

  As I approach the blocked-off section, I see the temporary barriers and caution tape marking the entrance to the old wing. I slip past the barriers, entering the dimly lit corridor that leads to the older part of the hospital. The air feels cooler, and the faint smell of dampness lingers in the air.

  The old wing is a stark contrast to the bustling modern hospital. As I make my way through it, the signs of the remodel are everywhere. Sheets of plastic hang from the walls, rustling with every draft. Sections of flooring have been ripped up, exposing the concrete underneath. The flickering fluorescent lights cast eerie shadows that dance along the walls. The long, narrow hallways twist and turn, forming a labyrinth of outdated rooms and empty spaces. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to clean anything in this state, but orders are orders.

  I notice boot prints on the ground, probably left by the construction workers. They're a reminder that I'm not alone in this eerie place, though it doesn't really calm my nerves. I put my earbuds back in and crank up the music, trying to drown out my unease.

  With the mop bucket in tow, I start mopping the dusty floor. I'm listening to some classic rock and soon find myself singing along to Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven." The familiar lyrics and melodies help me relax a bit. The rhythm of my movements combined with the steady beat of the music soon lull me into a trance, making time pass more quickly.

  I belt out a few lines, "And she's buying a stairway to heaven," my voice echoing slightly in the empty hallways. Before I know it, I've worked my way through several songs, each one blending into the next. Time seems to fly by as I lose myself in the simple, repetitive motions of mopping and singing.

  It's only when I stop singing to the end of "Hotel California" that I realize I've reached the door of the morgue. The sight of it snaps me back to reality, and my heart skips a beat as the familiar knot of fear tightens in my chest. Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself to enter.

  The room is dark, cold, and empty. The smell of age and disuse hits me immediately, a musty odor that hangs in the air. I reach for the light switch and flick it, but nothing happens. The bulb must be burnt out.

  Feeling uneasy, I step further into the room. The dim light from the hallway casts long, eerie shadows that seem to creep and twist on the walls. Dust blankets the floor, untouched for who knows how long. The air is thick and stifling, amplifying the overwhelming sense of isolation.

  The morgue's corpse storage area dominates one side of the room. It's a series of metal drawers set into the wall, each large enough to hold a body. The cold metal surfaces are worn and scratched, reflecting the years of use. Each drawer has a small plaque with a number, a haunting reminder of the countless lives that have been kept within these walls.

  The silence is almost deafening, and the room's chilling atmosphere seems to press in on me from all sides. I try to steady my breathing, focusing on the task at hand. I start mopping the floor, the sound of the mop against the tiles the only thing breaking the oppressive quiet.

  A flicker of motion catches my eye.

  I glance up—and freeze.

  There's a door I don’t remember. It’s old, warped with age, the paint around the frame cracked like dried riverbed. But what stops me cold is the window. Frosted glass, but not quite opaque. Behind it, something shifts.

  Light.

  Not normal light.

  It pulses softly in hues that don’t belong here—sickly greens, deep purples, glimmers of blue that seem to twist inside the glass like smoke trapped in water. The glow bleeds into the morgue, casting thin, shifting patterns across the walls and floor. They move like they're alive.

  I take a step forward. My feet feel slow, heavy, like the air has thickened around me.

  “What the hell is that…?” I whisper, but even my voice feels dulled here, swallowed before it can echo.

  The closer I get, the more wrong it feels. The colors aren’t just light—they’re breathing, pulsing in time with something just beyond perception. I can’t hear it, but I can feel it, deep in my bones, vibrating at some low, impossible frequency. My stomach churns. My palms dampen. The hair on my neck rises like I’ve stepped too close to something ancient. There’s a pressure building in my ears, like the moment before a storm hits.

  And then—behind me—a sound.

  Click.

  A slow, metallic scrape.

  I turn.

  One of the body drawers has slid open.

  It didn’t bang or rattle. It slid out smooth and silent, like it had been waiting. Like it knew I’d be here.

  There’s a shape on the slab. Covered, barely.

  The sheet lifts—not yanked, not blown—drawn back, almost reverently, like something underneath is waking up.

  And then it sits up.

  The movement is slow. Too slow. Not human. It rises with the disjointed stiffness of something long frozen, then forced to move again.

  The corpse is a grotesque husk of what once might’ve been human — skin blanched to a sickly gray, stretched too tight over jagged bone. In places, the flesh has sloughed away entirely, leaving raw glimpses of yellowed bone and dried sinew beneath. Its eyes open, not with life, but with memory — hollow sockets, black and bottomless, like they were carved out by grief itself.

  A low, rattling sound begins in its throat. A hiss that isn't breath, but something else. Static, maybe. Or the crackle of a radio stuck between stations.

  My legs lock. My mouth is dry.

  It swings its legs over the edge of the slab and stands—bare feet slapping the tile softly, as if they’ve done this before. As if they know the way.

  It raises its hand, skin peeling away from blackened nails, and points at me.

  The voice that comes from it is not one voice.

  It’s many—layered, warped, distant. It doesn’t speak in sentences. It spills words, fragments. Like a dream trying to remember itself.

  “He is coming…”

  “The eye behind the eye…”

  “You opened it…”

  “It sees you now…”

  The words crawl out of its mouth like insects, layered and dissonant, as if whispered from the bottom of a well. They don't sound like a warning. They sound like a sentence being passed.

  “What the fuck—” I choke out, my voice cracking into a raw shriek.

  The corpse moves closer.

  Its joints creak, and each step is punctuated by grotesque, wet pops, like cartilage grinding against old, broken bone. Its gait is stiff, but certain—like it knows exactly where it’s going. Its head tilts in small, unnatural jerks, eyes locked on mine with a stare that burns.

  I lunge to the side, but too late.

  Its fingers find the front of my shirt—cold, sharp, inhuman. The chill sinks straight through the fabric to my skin. I twist away, panic overriding thought, yanking back with everything I’ve got.

  Something gives.

  SNAP.

  Its arm tears off with a sickening rip, bone splitting from socket. The limb stays tangled in my shirt for a breathless second before falling to the floor with a wet, meaty sound that echoes far too long.

  I stand there, gasping, staring at it. The hand is still curled like it’s reaching for me.

  The touch of it clings to my chest like frostbite.

  “What is happening—?” I rasp, almost a whisper. Then louder, cracking into hysteria: “What the fuck is happening?!”

  My body finally remembers how to run.

  I bolt.

  Out of the morgue, down the corridor, every light flickering violently above me. The hallway twists around me, narrowing with every step, like the building itself is trying to hold me in. My footsteps slap against the tile. My breath is ragged, loud, animal.

  I don’t look back.

  I slam through the plastic barricades, barely registering the crash behind me. And then—

  Impact.

  I collide with someone—hard.

  My shoulder hits them like a battering ram, and for a second, we’re both stumbling, arms flailing, the world tilting.

  “Jack, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  Dr. Thorn’s voice slices through the haze, sharp and calm in a way that only makes it worse. I stumble back a step, blinking at him like he’s not real. For a second, I’m not sure he is.

  He stands just beyond the barricade, coat pristine, expression measured. His silver hair is untouched, his posture as composed as always, like he’s stepped out of a still frame.

  I can’t speak. My chest heaves. My hands are trembling.

  He steps closer, brow furrowing. “You’re still here? It’s past your shift, Jack.”

  I glance at my watch, not expecting it to mean anything—but there it is.

  3:03 a.m.

  What the hell? I was supposed to be off two hours ago. How did time get away from me? Where did it go?

  Dr. Thorn’s gaze moves to my shirt. Torn. Streaked with something dark. Blood. His eyes narrow—not with alarm, but calculation.

  “What happened to you?” he asks quietly. “Jack... what exactly did you see?”

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  How do you explain something like that? I saw a corpse rise and speak in voices I felt in my teeth. I was grabbed by something that shouldn’t move. That shouldn’t exist.

  I look past Thorn, toward the old wing.

  Nothing. Just shadow and silence. No flickering lights. No corpse. No spectral glow.

  I feel like I’m slipping.

  Maybe I am crazy.

  Thorn rests a hand on my shoulder. It’s firm. Gentle. The kind of gesture meant to ground you. But instead, it makes me feel smaller. Like I’m under glass.

  “Come to my office,” he says softly. “Let’s talk. Whatever happened in there… I can help you sort through it.”

  I look up at him, searching his face. There’s concern there. But also something else—something quieter, something too still.

  What is he doing here at 3 a.m.?

  Why does he seem unsurprised?

  “I... I need to go,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper. It doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels like survival.

  Thorn doesn’t stop me. He just watches as I turn away and walk—no, flee—down the hall, still trying to outrun whatever followed me out of that room.

  Leaving the hospital, I get into my car and sit motionless.

  I don’t even close the door at first—just stare ahead, hands gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering me to the world. My knuckles bleach white against the cracked leather, and for a few long seconds, I can’t seem to remember how to breathe.

  The morgue. The light. The thing. I try to tell myself none of it happened. That I’m overtired, overworked, coming apart at the seams. But the tear in my shirt, the blood, the weight in my chest—they say otherwise.

  Eventually, I start the engine.

  The old sedan rattles to life with a wheeze. I pull out of the lot, merging into the empty, rain-streaked streets like a ghost drifting through the world. The city outside the windshield looks unfamiliar, warped. Headlights bleed into neon. Streetlamps glow too bright, halos bending through the wet glass like smeared paint. Even the stoplights seem slow to change, like the world itself is stuck buffering. Wipers slide across the windshield in a lazy rhythm. The sound is soft, repetitive—almost soothing.

  It doesn’t help.

  My brain loops like a broken film reel: the body sitting up… the way it looked at me… those words.

  “He is coming…”

  “It sees you now…”

  I need air.

  I need a drink.

  I make a sudden right turn onto a side street I know by muscle memory. The neon sign of The Rusted Nail flickers just ahead, half the letters burned out, the rest buzzing like dying insects. It’s a hole-in-the-wall dive wedged between a shuttered laundromat and a pawn shop that no one goes into anymore.

  I pull into the narrow lot, kill the engine, and sit there for a second.

  Then I get out.

  Inside, the place smells like cheap beer, fried food, and decades of spilled regret. The lighting is low—blessedly low—and the same handful of regulars slump at the bar, watching muted sports highlights like they’re studying scripture. Nobody looks up when I enter. I’m just another shadow in a place built to forget.

  I slide onto a stool near the end of the bar. The vinyl groans beneath me like it remembers.

  Frank, the bartender, gives me a nod without saying anything. He knows the drill. Within moments, a glass of something brown and burning is in front of me. No questions. No words.

  I take the first sip. It’s warm, harsh. Perfect.

  The second sip burns less.

  The third goes down too easy.

  I stare at the shelves behind the bar, not really seeing them. My reflection swims in the mirror—pale, hollow-eyed, not quite real. I look like someone trying to crawl out of himself.

  The corpse’s voice echoes again, uninvited.

  “You opened it…”

  “It sees you now…”

  I down the rest of the glass in one go and set it on the bar a little too hard. Frank arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word.

  The bourbon doesn’t help.

  I’ve had two — maybe three — and the burn doesn’t dull anything. If anything, the world feels sharper now. My reflection in the mirror behind the bar looks a little more hollow. A little less tethered.

  I swirl the last half-inch of liquor in my glass, watching it catch the dim light like molten amber. That’s when I see her.

  She’s sitting at the far end of the bar, angled toward the crowd but somehow outside of it. Like the air curves around her.

  She doesn’t belong here.

  Not because she’s overdressed — she’s not. She wears a leather jacket that looks older than the bar itself, and boots that have walked places this city’s never imagined. But there's something else. Something in the way she sits too still. The way her eyes flick across the room like she’s reading everyone’s thoughts and finding them all lacking.

  Hair like copper wire. A tattoo curling around her neck, disappearing into her collar like it’s trying to get away. Her fingers drum against her glass — rhythm without melody.

  I’ve never seen her before, and I know this place like a second skin. She’s new. Or maybe I’ve just never noticed.

  Maybe I’m losing it.

  Still. I can’t help myself. I down what’s left of my drink and slide off the stool.

  As I approach, her gaze lifts. Sharp, amber eyes that catch mine and don’t blink.

  I try for something casual, the kind of line that used to work when I had more charm and less baggage.

  “You look like someone trying not to be noticed.”

  She sips her drink. Doesn't smile. “You look like someone trying too hard to disappear.”

  I chuckle, caught off guard. “Fair enough.”

  She tilts her head slightly, studying me like I’m a problem she’s already solved. “Rough night?”

  “You could say that.”

  She leans forward just a little. “You smell like bleach, fear, and a bad decision.”

  I blink.

  “Hospital custodian,” I say. “And yeah... that tracks.”

  She smiles then — just a sliver. There’s nothing friendly in it.

  “Go home, Jack,” she says quietly, before turning back to her drink.

  I never told her my name.

  Something cold flickers in my gut, but I don’t say anything. I just nod like I meant to leave anyway and walk out into the night.

  The streets blur past in streaks of wet neon and halogen haze. I don’t remember making most of the turns, just the way the headlights split across puddles like broken stars. My hands grip the wheel loosely, too loosely, and the radio mumbles something about lost love or cigarettes or both.

  I shouldn't be driving. I know that. But the thought of staying still—of sitting alone in that bar with whatever she was—feels worse than the risk.

  The world tilts a little too far every time I blink.

  Finally, I pull into the parking lot of my apartment building. The familiar sight of the brick facade, dimly lit by the flickering overhead lights, brings a small sense of relief. I turn off the engine and sit for a moment, the silence of the car now more oppressive than comforting.

  As I step inside, the familiar scent hits me like a brick wall — a pungent cocktail of weed, incense, cereal milk, and whatever Evan burned in the microwave earlier.

  Evan’s exactly where I expect him to be: sprawled across the couch like a lumpy dragon hoarding remote controls, a mixing bowl full of Lucky Charms balanced precariously on his gut. Some trashy sci-fi show flashes on the screen behind him, the volume too low to matter.

  “Yo, Jack!” he grins through a mouthful of rainbow marshmallows. “Long shift, huh?”

  “You could say that,” I mutter, doing my best to sound casual. The images from the morgue are still burned into my retinas, but I stuff them down. Evan doesn’t need that right now. Hell, I don’t need that right now.

  He squints at me. “Dude, you look like shit. You okay? You’re not turning into a zombie, are you?”

  I offer a dry chuckle. “If I were, your cereal would be the first thing on my menu.”

  He nearly chokes laughing. “Well, at least you’ve still got jokes. Come on, man—sit your corpse-ass down. This show’s got space vampires. I think you’d relate.”

  I sink into the couch beside him. The cushion wheezes under the weight.

  Evan immediately shoves the cereal bowl in my direction. “Want some? Limited edition. Unicorn marshmallows. You know you want it.”

  I smirk and shake my head. “I’m good, man.”

  He shrugs and digs back in. “So seriously... you look like you saw a ghost or something.”

  “Just needed a break from the madness,” I say, hoping that’s vague enough to pass.

  He nods, takes a beat to chew, then says, “You know, sometimes when life gets you down, you gotta channel your inner unicorn. Sparkle through the bullshit.”

  That gets a real smile out of me. “My inner unicorn?”

  He leans forward like he’s about to drop sacred knowledge. “Exactly. Gallop headfirst into the chaos with glitter and blind confidence.”

  Then he reaches for a small pouch on the table and pulls out a pre-roll. “Or, failing that… we do it the old-fashioned way.”

  He lights it up and takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud that smells like citrus and something earthy. “You want in?”

  I take it from him and inhale. Hard. Too hard. Immediately regret it.

  I double over coughing while Evan cackles. “I told you, man—this one’s strong. Picked it up today. Guess the strain name.”

  I wheeze, eyes watering. “I swear, if you say ‘Unicorn Cookies,’ I’m walking out.”

  He holds up the package. “Bam.”

  I snort, shaking my head. “What is with you and unicorns tonight?”

  He blows smoke toward the ceiling. “They’re majestic. And high-functioning emotional support animals.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the night still pressing down on me in the background.

  Evan glances over, a bit more serious now. “Divorce is rough. Life’s rough. But you’re still here, man. You got out of bed. That counts for something.”

  I nod, but my throat tightens a little. “It’s just… everything, y’know? The job, the silence, the wondering what the hell it’s all for.”

  Evan takes one last drag, then stubs the joint out in the ashtray. “My cousin went through something like this. After his breakup, he used to go outside at night, completely naked, and howl at the moon.”

  I blink. “That... that was your takeaway? Moon howling?”

  He grins. “Hey, worked for him. Got married a year later. Swears it realigned his chakras.”

  We both burst out laughing.

  Evan leans back, eyes half-lidded. “Sometimes, man, you just gotta do something weird enough to remind yourself you’re alive.”

  The laughter fades, but the warmth lingers.

  I stand and stretch. “Alright, I’m tapping out. I need to sleep before I start questioning my chakra alignment.”

  “You sure? I got more advice. I’m a fountain of mythical wisdom.”

  “I think I’m good for now.” I chuckle. “Goodnight, Evan.”

  “Sleep tight, bro. And hey—don’t let the unicorns bite.”

  I wave him off, grinning as I make my way to my room. The dim glow from the hallway lamp spills across the floor like a warm sigh. I change out of my clothes and collapse into bed, the mattress creaking beneath me.

  The quiet creeps back in.

  I close my eyes, hoping Evan’s laughter is enough to keep the shadows at bay. Just for tonight.