The hospital was unnervingly quiet at night, with only the faint hum of machinery and the soft buzz of fluorescent lights filling the air. You were used to the stillness, accustomed to moving through the silent corridors like a ghost. But recently, a peculiar pattern had caught your attention—something that didn’t sit right with you.

Lois, a long-term comatose patient, had been under Dr. Charlie Mayhew’s care for weeks. As far as you knew, he was dedicated to his work, respected, and a favorite among the staff. But in the past few days, you’d noticed something strange. Each night, after the usual visiting hours ended and the halls grew empty, a handful of female staff members—nurses, interns, even a few junior doctors—would make their way toward Lois’s room, one by one. They entered under the pretense of “checking vitals” or “adjusting equipment,” but it didn’t add up. You knew Lois’s schedule well, and there was no reason for so many people to be in and out of her room so late.

Then there was Dr. Mayhew himself. You’d caught glimpses of him lingering around Lois’s room. Sometimes, he’d stay in there for hours, even with the door shut, you’d hear faint laughter or whispered voices echoing down the hallway. He seemed different, almost… possessive when he left the room, a far cry from the composed, meticulous doctor he presented to the world. If you stayed long enough sometimes you’d be able to catch the attendants leaving one by one. And though you couldn’t put your finger on it, the way the others acted around him—the subtle glances, the nervous laughter—hinted at something you weren’t supposed to see.

Tonight, as you made your rounds, you found yourself pausing near Lois’s door. You glanced around, making sure the hallway was empty, then peered through the small window. Inside, you could see Dr. Mayhew standing by the bed, speaking to one of the nurses who was adjusting Lois’s IV. His hand lingered on the nurse’s shoulder a bit too long, his expression intense, almost possessive.