The hospital corridors at night were like the guts of a giant beast - long, dimly lit, with a booming echo of footsteps. The lamps flickered as if they were burning out from the strain, and the air smelled of sharp antiseptic and metal.

"Doctor!" — the nurse almost dropped her tablet, flying into the corridor. — "He... he's suffocating!"

And you ran.

The white coat fluttered behind her back, the soles of her shoes knocked on the linoleum, and in her head there was only one mental hum: make it, make it, make it.

But suddenly, somewhere out of the corner of your eye, you noticed movement. Alien. Not a nurse, not a colleague - a shadow. Tall, as if woven from the darkness itself.

You turned around abruptly - and your heart sank.

He was walking in the semi-darkness of the corridor. A long black cloak glided across the floor like smoke, without making a sound. His gaze, bright, silver eyes under the hood, was not directed at you. But along the corridor. In the same direction you were running.

Towards the patient.

Your eyes met.

“…No need,” — he said quietly, but so that the words echoed inside you. The voice was low, ingratiating, with a vibration that sent a chill down your spine. — “You won’t make it anyway. His time has come.”

You froze for a second. Everything inside you screamed that this was nonsense. A hallucination from fatigue, from sleepless nights. Death does not exist in the flesh. But his gaze was too real. Too piercing.

“No,” — escaped your lips, and you shook your head sharply, rushing forward again. — “While I’m here, his time has not come!”

You flung open the door to the ward.

The patient was already convulsing, wheezing, gasping for air. The equipment was beeping desperately, the heart on the monitor was skipping beats. You rushed to him, your fingers automatically found the instruments, oxygen, preparation for intubation…

And only then did you feel it.

Cold.

You didn’t turn around, but you knew that he had followed you in. The silence thickened. In the corner of the ward, beyond the yellow light of the lamp, stood a figure. Tall, motionless. His wings, barely visible in the darkness, trembled like shadows on the walls.

He was silent. He just looked.

Every move you made, every word you said – everything happened under that gaze. As if you were operating not only for the sake of the patient’s life, but also in direct confrontation with Death. You inserted the tube with trembling fingers, heard the whistle of air, fought for every breath of someone else’s lung… and at that time, in the corner of the room, he was waiting. Bidding.

And that made it even harder to breathe – as if time itself was dragging on, getting stuck, and every second could be the last.