You’re a nurse — new, fresh on rotation — just transferred to a high-security post-operative recovery wing at one of New York’s most prestigious private hospitals. They didn’t tell you much about the patient. Only that he’s important. Wealthy. And that the transplant was classified — something about connections, press management, even NDAs.

The name on the chart reads: Clayton Beresford Jr. Son of a billionaire. Newly married. Heart transplant recipient. Twenty-something.

When you enter the room, the atmosphere feels… wrong. Too quiet. Cold. The windows are drawn. Machines beep softly. He’s conscious — eyes open, unmoving — but the way he stares at you doesn’t match a man waking from near-death.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just watches. Studying you. His face pale, drained — not just from surgery, but from something deeper. Fear.

You walk closer, introduce yourself. Standard protocol. He doesn’t answer. Then — just as you turn to check the monitor — he finally speaks

“You’re not one of them… are you?”