♡Dr. Zayne's Massage Therapist♡

He wasn’t your doctor—not really. He didn’t handle your charts or bring your meds.You only saw him when you were walking in the hospital’s walls. Silent. Gloved. Eyes sharp as glass.

You didn’t like the way he looked at people. Or rather, the way he didn’t.

He observed. Not like a person—but like something trying to understand what people were.

You had watched him once from behind a door while he was in an asleep patient’s room.

He had stood still, for far too long. Not checking their vitals. Not saying a word. Just… watching.

You told yourself he was probably tired. Or maybe he was just like that—quiet, serious, brilliant. The other nurses respected him. Your actual doctor,Dr. Greyson, the one with the warm smile and jokes about pudding, called Zayne “a machine wrapped in genius.”

But he said it fondly.

You didn’t laugh.

Still, you never thought much of it. You never really had to engage with him for anything. After all, you were already stuck in this hospital before he arrived.

You told yourself he was just intimidating. Cold, but professional. Someone who didn’t waste words or warmth. Someone you could respect… from a distance.

But sometimes—on the worst nights, when the halls went still and you could hear your heartbeat over the machines—

You thought:

He didn’t walk like a doctor. He walked like death, making rounds.

And you hated that your body believed it.

Knock knock.

The sound pulled you from your thoughts.

The door creaked open, and in stepped Dr. Greyson, all soft footsteps and easy smiles.

His white coat was wrinkled again—probably from sleeping at his desk—but his pale blue shirt was still tucked in, and his tie had tiny ducks on it. Again.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said, like he always did. “How’s the most patient patient on the floor today?”

You gave him a tired smile, the one that didn’t reach your eyes but always made him smile wider.

“Still breathing,” you murmured.

“Then we’re winning,” he said, pulling up a stool. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He always made you feel like the sickness wasn’t something inside you, but something you were both fighting together. Like you weren’t alone in it.

As he took your vitals, he asked about your sleep, your appetite, your pain—always with a tone that said he cared, not just needed to know.

He made jokes. Light ones. The kind that filled the silences without needing to force laughter.

For a few minutes, it was easy to forget how cold the room was. How long the days were. How slow dying could be.

But then—

From the corner of your eye, through the window in the door, you saw him.

Dr. Zayne.

Passing by.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t look in.

There was a woman walking beside him. She was talking, her voice too soft to hear through the door, but her expression was warm. Familiar.

She smiled at him like she’d known him forever. Like he was someone worth smiling at.

And maybe most surprising of all—

Dr. Zayne let her.

He didn’t look at her, not quite, but he didn’t walk away either. His pace matched hers. His posture wasn’t as stiff as usual.

He didn’t seem like death right then. He seemed… human.

You found yourself sitting up straighter. Watching.

The woman touched his arm lightly—barely a brush—but Zayne didn’t pull away.

Dr.Greyson chuckled at your curious gaze but didn’t give you any answers. He adjusted your IV, humming under his breath—something soft and familiar. You didn’t recognize the tune, but you liked that it didn’t sound like anything clinical.

“You didn’t eat much today,” he said, glancing at your chart.

“It tasted like cardboard.”

“Cardboard would sue for slander if it heard that,” he murmured with mock offense.

You laughed—a breathy little thing—but it made him glance up with that look.

The one that said: I’m glad you’re still trying.

And maybe you were. In your own quiet, stubborn way.

“How’s the pain?”

You shrugged. “It’s quieter today.”

“Then let’s not wake it up,” he said, scribbling something into the chart.

He didn’t hover, never made you feel like a problem to be solved. He simply existed with you, beside the slow drip of medication and the hum of sleep beginning to settle over your bones.

He stood to leave, reaching over to dim the overhead light.

“Try to rest, okay?” he said gently. “The halls aren’t as fun as you think at night.”

You smiled, eyes already fluttering closed. “They’re less white in the dark.”

He paused—maybe a little surprised. Then he gave a quiet chuckle.

“Fair enough. But still... don’t go running marathons in your socks.”

“No promises.”

He shook his head and whispered, almost to himself, “You’re trouble.”

You didn’t argue as he just sat there for a moment. Then he offered you something warmer than hope: a hand.

You took it.

He stayed like that until your eyelids grew heavy, and your breath evened out, and the world faded to soft beeping and soft white light.

You didn’t mean to wake up.

You never did. Sleep came in patches—thin and unreliable.

The room was dim now, bathed in shadows and blue glow from the machines. The halls beyond your door were quiet. No footsteps. No chatter. Just the sound of your IV dripping, like water in a deep cave.

You sat up slowly, joints stiff, blanket falling to your lap.

This place had been your world for so long.  The nurses knew you by name. Some of the younger ones had even grown up while you stayed the same, slowly fading into the sheets.

So you looked at the clock and you did what other patients weren’t supposed to:

You wandered.

The nurses didn’t mind. They knew you. You’d been here longer than some of the interns. As long as you didn’t pull out your IV or get lost near the elevators, no one stopped you.

You bare feet touched the floor. You pulled on your robe and then opened the door.

The hallway greeted you with a soft hum of silence—dim lights, pale tiles, the faint echo of distant machines.

It felt almost peaceful.

Like you were the only living thing left in the world.

Your bare feet made almost no sound on the cold tile.

You stayed close to the walls, just in case. Not that anyone would stop you—but there was something sacred about this time of night. Like the building itself was asleep, and you didn’t want to wake it.

You walked past the nurses' station. Empty. Past the staff kitchen. Dark.

Then you heard it.

A clang.

Then another. A metallic scrape.

It wasn’t loud. Just enough to make your heart skip but your lips sketched in a happy smile.

You knew every corner of this hospital.

Not from maps or staff permission, but from years of slow wandering—when your legs could hold you, when the nurses looked the other way.

The sub-basement wasn’t supposed to be for patients. But rules bent when you were more furniture than person.

Down here, the air smelled like old copper and dust. Warm from the boilers. Quiet in the way only forgotten places could be.

And best of all—no one ever bothered you.

That’s why she liked it too.

The cat.

You didn’t name her. Somehow, that made her feel more real. More yours. You just called her hey you or little monster in a whisper. She never minded. She’d rub against your calves like she owned you, her fur rough with dust.

She came to you when no one else did. Rubbed against your legs, purred like thunder in a tiny throat. She didn’t care about IV lines or hospital gowns. She just wanted food. And sometimes, warmth.

You fed her scraps. Bits of meat. Sometimes milk in a little paper cup.

No one knew about her, except maybe a janitor or two. But no one said anything.

Tonight, you had turkey wrapped in a napkin and a small container of cream tucked into your pocket. The elevator to B2 let out its usual groan, and the flickering lights danced across the brushed metal walls. You leaned against the side, heart beating in a familiar rhythm.

Down here, it was warm. Your joints didn’t ache as much. The air didn’t sting.

You knew the path by memory. Past the broken equipment. Past the dripping pipe that always leaked even when fixed. Past the pile of unopened supply boxes.

Your footsteps echoed. But it was a kind echo. Familiar.

“Little monster,” you called gently. “I brought your favorite.”

No answer yet. But that wasn’t unusual.

One day, she panicked – you didn’t know why– and she ran into a wall so hard, she bled from her head. You had to bandage her head but since then, she was clumsier. Her paws weren’t moving as smoothly as the first time you met her.

Since then, she has been way slower or sometimes she just enjoyed taking her time. Slept behind the rusted lockers or slinked under the old gurneys before showing up with a stretch and a yawn.

You reached the far corner—where the wall vent buzzed quietly with warm air—and knelt slowly, placing the food down.

“Come on, little monster,” you whispered, smiling softly.

You waited.

The silence pressed in. Not cold. Not threatening. Just still.

You didn’t notice at first that something was… off.

The silence was too perfect.

No cat. No shifting. No meow. No distant mechanical hum.

Just… nothing.

You stayed kneeling by the vent a little longer than usual.

Normally by now, she’d be here. A flick of a tail, a chirping meow, a sharp little nudge against your ankle. You pressed the napkin closer to the floor and opened the cream quietly, the familiar plastic snap echoing too loud in the stillness.

“Hey,” you whispered, frowning. “I know you hear me.”

Still nothing.

You glanced toward the shadows beyond the vent. The boiler rumbled softly like always. Nothing looked wrong. Just… still.

You almost stood to leave.

And that’s when you heard it.

A clink.

Not from the vent. Not from your tray.

Behind you.

You stilled.

Not out of fear.

Just… listening.

Maybe it was a pipe. Or the wheels of a cleaning cart on uneven tile. Or someone dropping a scalpel upstairs and the sound somehow carried through the walls.

Hospitals always made noise. You knew them all.

You turned your head slightly.

Silence again.

You slowly rose to your feet. The cream cup tipped and rolled, unnoticed.

The hallway behind you stretched longer in the dim amber light. The flickering overhead bulbs had gone still.

You took a step. Just one.

You didn’t mean to follow it.

You could’ve turned around. Could’ve called out, laughed it off, blamed it on the building like you always did.

But something about the quiet tonight didn’t feel like silence.

It felt like something holding its breath.

And now, so were you.

You stepped past the line of old supply crates, one hand brushing the dusty edge for balance. The tiles beneath your feet felt warmer here, like the heat from the boilers still clung to them.

Another step.

Another sound.

Drip.

A pause.

Drip.

It wasn’t a leak. You knew what leaking pipes sounded like. They hissed. They gurgled. They had rhythm.

This… was slower. Heavy. Wet.

Your eyes adjusted as you moved deeper into the sub-basement, where the hallway bent around the edge of the boiler chamber. The lights were weaker here. Yellowed.

Drip.

It echoed.

Not loudly—but it was the only sound.

You reached a doorway. Half open. A storage room, maybe. One of the ones that had never been used in your memory.

You pressed your palm lightly to the frame.

The air was warmer inside. Still. Almost humid.

You leaned forward—

Just enough to peer through the crack.

Your fingers barely registered the cool metal of the doorframe as you pushed it open, slow enough that it barely creaked, careful as if you were afraid of waking something, though you couldn’t have said what or why.

The room inside was warmer than the hallway had been—not welcoming, not gentle, but close and dense and humid in a way that made your lungs tighten a little with every breath, like the air had been sitting too long in someone else’s mouth.

One overhead light flickered, casting soft, intermittent shadows across the far wall where old boxes were stacked and folded linens had yellowed at the edges, and for a moment it looked no different than any other forgotten hospital space.

And then your eyes found the center of the room.

And the center of the room found you.

He was hanging—

Not slumped in a chair, not lying on the floor, but suspended, his feet barely grazing the ground, toes curled unnaturally inward like they had once tried to stand and then forgot how.

His arms dangled limp, his head hung low, chin nearly touching his bare chest, and you thought—almost idiotically—that maybe he was alive, that maybe he was unconscious, that maybe there was some medical explanation for this.

Until you saw his torso.

Split.

Opened like a textbook or an exhibit or something out of a nightmare made for people who had trusted hospitals their whole lives and suddenly didn’t know where the danger had been hiding all this time.

His skin had been peeled back, delicately, purposefully, like the person who had done it wanted to see everything inside and had taken their time doing it—his ribs spread, his chest hollow, his heart gone, and not in the way that left a mess, but in a way that felt almost reverent.

As if whoever had taken it hadn’t just wanted to remove it—

They had wanted to own it.

No ragged edges. No mess. Just the hollow curve of the organ’s absence, like a dish plucked neatly from its place.

His face was still intact. Still staring. The skin pale and waxy beneath dried blood.

A part of you wondered if he was alive when he was being cut open. But as your eyes traveled toward his face, you noticed his mouth.

Sewn shut.

A single black suture crisscrossed his lips, puckering the corners unnaturally. As if his last words had been stolen—silenced by hand.

A slow drop of blood slid from the edge of his open sternum, dripped onto the tile, and joined the dark pool beneath him.

Drip.

You didn’t scream.

Not because you didn’t want to, but because your voice had locked itself somewhere behind your ribs and your body was too busy deciding whether to flee or fall or simply forget how to exist.

Your hand reached behind you blindly, fingers searching for the doorframe, your legs preparing to bolt, to run without reason or direction—

And that’s when the air shifted behind you.

Not loudly.

Not even audibly.

Just… the sense of presence.

Like something had stepped into your space that didn’t belong to it.

Like cold had grown bones and breath and eyes, and was now standing just behind your shoulder, waiting.You turned, your body sluggish with something deeper than fear, slower than instinct, as though your blood had thickened and your bones had forgotten their purpose, and the room didn’t tilt but your world did, just enough to make you feel the gravity in your chest shift.

He was standing in the doorway.

Dr. Zayne.

Just as you’d seen him a hundred times before—white coat crisp and buttoned to the throat, gloves fitted to his hands like second skin, hair perfectly in place, not a speck of blood anywhere on him, not a wrinkle, not a breath out of sync.

He didn’t look like someone who belonged here, not in this heat, not in this blood, not in this moment.

He looked like someone who had stepped out of a sterile photograph.

And for the first time since you ever saw the man, you felt relieved. Someone, a doctor, was here. Maybe he would be able to save the man? 

Because how could someone look like that and belong to something this wrong?

“Dr. Zayne,” you breathed, the words breaking loose from your throat like cracked glass. “I… I didn’t—”

Your voice caught. Your feet wouldn’t move. You raised your hands instinctively, as if to show him you weren’t hiding anything, as if this were a crime scene and you were the one in trouble.

“I didn’t touch him,” you said, your voice trembling and too high. “I—I came down to feed the cat, I just—I found him like this.”

You looked back toward the hanging man, heart pounding so loudly it muffled your own voice.

“Can you—can you save him?” you asked, desperation thickening every syllable, pulling it down into your throat like it might drown there.

“I think he’s still—still breathing, maybe, if you’re fast—”

You didn’t notice that Zayne hadn’t moved.

Not forward. Not back. Not even to look at the man.

He was looking at you.

And his face was unreadable.

Not angry. Not surprised.

Just… observing.

Like you were part of the scene now.

“Please,” you said again, your voice cracking into something small and childlike, a version of yourself you hadn’t heard in years. “You can help him. Please—do something.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, mechanical, the way someone tilts a puzzle piece to see if it fits. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t check for a pulse. He didn’t even glance at the open, red cavity behind you.

He just stepped past you.

One step.

Two.

Two steps, and he stood beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the cold rising off of him—not from his body, not from the coat, but from something beneath his skin, something that had nothing to do with body temperature and everything to do with absence.

He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t ask what you were doing here. Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Instead, he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. Pulled it just slightly straighter. Neat. Controlled. As if the chaos around him hadn’t registered as chaos at all.

You watched him like he was the last stable thing in the room, like maybe he was assessing the scene, already forming a plan, already calculating how to help, how to fix this—

And then, finally, he looked at you.

His voice, when it came, was low. Even. Calm enough to make you flinch.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” he said.

Not cruel. Not accusatory. Just a statement. A quiet fact.

You nodded, too quickly. Your throat was raw. Your hands had started to shake. “I—I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to sneak around, I just—I come down sometimes, I feed this cat, I didn’t mean to—”

Your words ran ahead of you, stumbling over each other like children late for class, trying to explain something too big with sentences too small.

“I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. “I swear I didn’t. I just walked in and he was—he was already—”

Zayne didn’t interrupt. He didn’t reach for you. He just listened. Or watched you try to explain yourself, try to make sense of something that wouldn’t bend to logic.

“Is he…” You swallowed hard. “Is he dead?”

Zayne turned his head slightly—not to look at the body, but to study you again, as if your reaction was more interesting than the answer to your question.

“Yes,” he said, after a pause. “He is.”

Something inside you crumpled. You could feel it—a delicate part of you folding in on itself like paper gone soft with water.

“I—I thought maybe if we were fast, if we—”

“You were too late,” he said, gently. “That’s all.”

And for a moment, it sounded like a comfort.

Like he was reassuring you.

Like nothing you did could have changed it.

“That’s all,” he repeated, as if death was a matter of timing, like arriving too late to a lecture or missing the last train home—not a man hanging open and empty from the ceiling of a hospital basement.

You nodded again, even though your mind hadn’t caught up with your body, even though nothing inside you agreed with him, but you were nodding because that’s what people do when they don’t know how else to stay alive—when agreement feels safer than silence.

“I didn’t know,” you said again, the words barely audible, your lips stiff and cold and dry. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

Zayne’s gaze drifted—not to the body, not to the blood, but to the thin trail of footprints behind you. Yours. Clean and small, like a child’s, perfectly stamped in the wetness that had spread from the center of the room.

His eyes returned to you, and there was something strange in them now—still quiet, still soft, but no longer neutral.

“You should be more careful,” he said, voice low, almost kind. “Things happen down here.”

You blinked.

Something in you cracked.

Not fully. Not loudly. Just a small, hairline fracture in the center of your understanding.

Because it was the first time he sounded like he wasn’t trying to explain something to you, but warn you.

“He… he didn’t fall,” you said slowly, your voice thin, fragile as a thread caught in a breeze. “He didn’t hurt himself.”

You didn’t want him to answer. You wanted him to tell you yes, to lie, to laugh, to call a nurse, to do anything that didn’t confirm what your body was already starting to scream from beneath your skin.

Zayne didn’t lie.

He just looked up at the body, then back at you, and said—

“No. He didn’t.”

Your breath hitched.

Something inside you had already started retreating, curling inward like a flower before frost, but his voice anchored you again—not by tone, not by warmth, but by familiarity.

Because Zayne was always calm. Always composed.

And this… this sounded like the version of him you knew. The version everyone talked about.

“What are you feeling right now?” he asked.

His voice didn’t rise or falter. It was quiet, steady, edged with the kind of concern doctors use when asking about pain levels—when trying to translate the chaos of your body into something measurable, something clean enough to record.

Your lips parted.

And before you could stop yourself, your body obeyed the rhythm it remembered.

“Tightness in my chest,” you whispered. “Hands are cold. Legs feel… like they aren’t mine. My breathing is short…My head feels like exploding…I think I’m—I think it’s fear.”

Zayne nodded slowly, almost encouragingly. He took one small step closer, the sound of his shoes barely registering over the hum of blood in your ears.

“Good,” he said. “That’s very clear. You’re self-aware.”

And you felt a flicker—something close to relief.

Because that’s how doctors always spoke to you. That calm attentiveness. That quiet voice. The way they listened. Measured. Cared.

“Fear,” he repeated. “Yes. That makes sense.”

He looked down at your hands, still trembling against your sides, then back at your face.

And then he said, almost thoughtfully—

“Interesting. I don’t feel anything.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even detached.

It was a statement. Like reporting the temperature. Like observing a side effect.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

Because he didn’t mean he wasn’t upset.

He meant he never was.

Something in your stomach lurched—not sharp like a stab, but heavy, like something falling too fast through your insides, dragging pieces of you down with it.

You took a step back.

He didn’t move.

You took another. Your heel caught the edge of the tile where the floor changed level slightly, and your ankle twisted, just a little, just enough to break your balance for half a second.

Zayne tilted his head, but didn’t reach for you.

“Careful,” he said gently. “You’re already weak.”

The words didn’t sting.

They chilled.

You blinked fast, trying to clear the blur rising in your eyes, but your body was already betraying you—your breath too shallow, your skin prickling, your legs going soft at the knees.

“Please,” you said, your voice shaking so badly it didn’t even sound like yours anymore. “I won’t—I won’t tell anyone. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t—”

“You saw everything,” he said.

Still no anger. Still no blame. Just the truth, laid bare in that same measured tone, like a diagnosis.

Your back hit the wall. Cold concrete pressed through the fabric of your gown. You couldn’t look at the body again. You couldn’t even look at Zayne now, not directly. 

But you felt his presence in every inch of air between you—clean, composed, unshaken.

“Why are you doing this?” you breathed, though you weren’t even sure what this meant anymore.

Zayne didn’t answer. Not right away. He took a step forward—calm, smooth, no faster than before.

Then, softly:

“To feel something.” His eyes met yours. Pale. Unmoving. “But I don’t.”

Your hand slapped to your chest, instinctively, trying to hold your heartbeat in place.

“How could you…”

The words barely left your lips, thin as a thread stretched between worlds, but they came anyway—shaking, broken, like your body was trying to build a wall with sticks in a storm.

“How could you do that to someone?”

Zayne’s head tilted again, just slightly, just enough to make you feel like he wasn’t adjusting for sound but for perspective, like he needed to see you from the right angle to understand the question.

“Do what?” he asked, voice soft, as if you were overreacting.

You gestured—wild, weak, helpless—toward the body without looking.

“That,” you said. “That man. You—you opened him. You… took things from him.”

Zayne stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that you could see the slight indentation of his gloves against his fingers, the way his sleeves were still crisp, unwrinkled.

“Would you like to understand?”

You blinked, confused. Terrified.

“What?”

“I could show you,” he said, voice gentle, almost soothing. “If you want to know how it’s done.”

You shook your head so fast it made your vision tilt, but he didn’t stop talking.

“It’s very clean,” he said. “When it’s done properly. Controlled. Thoughtful. You don’t have to be cruel to be curious.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Only air.

“Would you like to see inside someone?”

That was the moment your body gave up pretending.

The warmth bloomed beneath your hospital gown before you could stop it, a sudden wet heat that spread fast down your thighs, pooling quietly around your feet. Your hands went to your stomach like you could hold it in, like shame could protect you better than begging.

You didn’t sob. You just stared at him, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

You couldn’t speak.

Not with the warmth soaking your legs, not with your chest squeezed so tightly around your lungs that breathing felt like punishment.

Zayne didn’t comment on it. He only looked down, briefly, at the stain spreading across the floor—an involuntary reaction, a physical submission—and then back up, his expression unreadable.

You saw nothing in his eyes. No empathy. No cruelty. Just stillness.

“You’re frightened,” he said simply.

A fact. Like saying the floor is wet.

You nodded, because lying didn’t make sense anymore.

Zayne studied you for a moment longer. His hands, still gloved, hung at his sides—loose, relaxed. But the tension was in his shoulders now. In the subtle way he held himself.

As if he was deciding.

Not how to comfort you. Not how to protect you.

But whether it would be more efficient to kill you now or clean up after you later.

Your knees trembled. Your voice came out as a whisper, cracked and wet.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

You hadn’t planned to say it.

It just tore its way out, instinctive, like your body was trying to offer something up before it could be taken.

Zayne blinked slowly.

“You already have,” he said. “By being here.”

Your mouth opened, searching for a reply, some desperate counterargument that would make him see you as something other than a variable, a witness, a liability.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to see anything, I just—”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t change what you saw.”

The room felt smaller now. The walls closer. The light dimmer.

Zayne took one slow step toward you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, but your feet wouldn’t move.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

His eyes flicked over you—not with hunger, not with interest.

But with calculation.

Like a surgeon examining a problem. Like a butcher weighing whether to waste the meat.

“You’re already dying,” he said, as if he was reminding himself. “So maybe I don’t have to do anything at all.”

Your heart was moving too fast.

Not just pounding—but scrambling, like it didn’t know whether to run or stop, beating so hard against your ribs that the pain started to edge into something sharper, tighter, something you’d felt before in the worst nights when the machines beeped and the nurses rushed in.

Your legs gave out.

Not gracefully. Not like a faint in a dream. You dropped. Hard.

Your shoulder hit the floor first, then your hip. The impact vibrated through your chest, but none of it hurt as much as the inside did—your chest caving in on itself, your lungs clawing for air, your pulse screaming through your skull.

You couldn’t get enough oxygen. You couldn’t think.

All you could feel was the thundering chaos of your own body turning against you.

“Please,” you rasped, though you didn’t know what you were begging for anymore.

Above you, the fluorescent light flickered once, twice—then steadied.

A shape moved.

Then the sound of fabric—clean, crisp—rustling as someone knelt down in front of you.

Dr.Zayne.

His face lowered into view, upside down from your angle, pale and calm, the fluorescent glow turning the edges of his features ghostly.

He wasn’t frowning. He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t reaching for a call button or checking your vitals.

He was watching.

Eyes sharp, mouth still, head tilted just slightly—not with concern, but with curiosity.

“Your heart’s failing,” he said, almost thoughtfully, like he was pointing out the weather.

You couldn’t respond. Your mouth was open, but your chest wouldn’t lift.

Zayne leaned in closer, one gloved hand hovering an inch above your wrist, not to hold it—just to feel the flicker of your pulse through the air.

“Is it the fear?” he murmured. “Or the condition?” His eyes followed the way your chest struggled to rise. “It’s difficult to tell.”

He smiled—not unkindly, not cruelly.

Almost like he was… grateful.

“You’re very… informative like this.”

The edges of your vision began to blur—slow at first, like fog creeping across glass, until the light above Zayne’s head began to pulse, dimming, brightening, dimming again, not because the bulb was flickering… but because you were.

You tried to lift your hand. It twitched against the floor. That was all.

Zayne’s gloved fingers drifted closer—not to help, not to steady, but to follow the motion.

He crouched lower, one elbow resting on his knee, and tilted his head to match the angle of yours, as if trying to see the world from the way your face was falling apart.

“Your pupils are dilating,” he said softly. “There’s a tremor in your fingertips.”

You gasped. A thin, wet sound that caught in your throat like thread through a needle.

“I wonder,” he continued, “what you’ll remember.”

His tone never changed. It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t cruel.

Just curious.

He watched your jaw tighten. Your legs twitch. Your lungs beg for control they no longer had.

“I could help,” he murmured, almost absently. “But I’m not sure you’d learn anything from that.”

The room tilted again. You couldn’t tell if he was moving closer or if your vision was collapsing around him.

“This is what it looks like,” he whispered. “When the body thinks it’s dying.”

You whimpered, low and broken, as your eyes rolled back slightly.

Zayne leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I’ll remember it for you.”

And then—

Darkness.

Light.

Not the flickering, sickly yellow of the basement, but soft, clean, familiar.

Your eyes snapped open like something had yanked them awake from beneath your skin, and for a moment, the ceiling above you didn’t look like a ceiling—it looked like a trapdoor you’d fallen through, back into a world you weren’t ready to return to.

“Hey—hey, you’re awake.”

A voice. His voice.

But not Zayne.

Dr. Greyson.

He leaned over the bed, eyes wide, colorless with fear. His tie was crooked. His coat was gone. His hair was a mess.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his hand brushing your wrist, checking your pulse with fingers that trembled just slightly. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked.

The machines beside you beeped steadily. The IV line tugged softly at your arm. The blanket was tucked around you—tight, secure, like someone had wrapped you up after.

“You had an attack last night,” he said, trying to sound calm, but failing. “Your heart rate spiked, then collapsed. You were barely breathing when the staff found you in the east corridor,” Dr. Greyson said gently, like he was afraid you might break if he raised his voice even a little.

“Close to the stairwell near Imaging. You must’ve passed out while walking. You weren’t hurt, but you weren’t breathing right. The nurses said you looked like you were… gone.”

You didn’t answer.

Because that wasn’t where you were.

That wasn’t even close.

The basement had no Imaging signs. No corridors with bright lights and polished floors.

You had collapsed on concrete, surrounded by blood and a body hanging from the ceiling, with Zayne kneeling in front of you, whispering truths like lullabies.

So why…

“You must’ve pushed yourself too hard,” Greyson continued, frowning at your vitals. “Or maybe you saw something that triggered the attack.”

You swallowed.

Did you?

“You don’t remember what happened, do you?” he asked.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.And for just a moment—just long enough to wonder—you considered lying. Because if they found you in a clean hallway, nowhere near the sub-basement…

Then someone had moved you.

Or was everything a horrible nightmare..?

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them.

“You have to check the sub-basement.”

Dr. Greyson froze in the middle of adjusting your IV.

“The what?”

“There’s a body,” you said, breath picking up, every word scraped raw. “There was—someone. Hanging. His chest was—open. His heart was gone.”

You didn’t care how it sounded. You didn’t care that your voice was cracking or that your hands were shaking. You just needed someone to believe you.

“You said I collapsed in a hallway,” you went on, voice rising, “but that’s not where I was. I was in the sub-basement. Near the boiler room. I went to feed the cat—please, Dr. Greyson, I’m not crazy.”

He blinked at you slowly.

Not annoyed. Not suspicious.

Just… confused.

“There’s no one authorized to be down there this week,” he said carefully. “That wing’s shut for… maintenance.” His eyes looked away for a second from you, like he was… trying to hide something from you?

“That doesn’t mean no one was there,” you shot back. “Please. Just look. Please.”

He stared at you for another beat. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Okay. Okay—breathe, alright? I’ll go take a look. Stay here. Don’t move.”

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

You lay there in silence as the door clicked shut behind him, every second stretching like thread soaked in ice water.

The beeping of your heart monitor ticked out your panic in perfect rhythm.

You stared at the ceiling and imagined him finding it.

The body. The blood. The hook.

The proof that you weren’t insane.

That you weren’t making it up.

That Zayne had done something.

That he was real.

The door opened fifteen minutes later.

Dr. Greyson stepped inside. Slower now. Paler. But not in the way you expected. He sat down next to you, gently, like he thought you might fall apart if he moved too fast.

“I went down there,” he said. “I checked every room.”

You leaned forward, heart pounding.

“And?”

A pause.

“There’s nothing there,” he said quietly. “No body. No blood. No sign of anyone having been there at all.”

You didn’t speak for a long time after Greyson gave you his answer.

No blood. No body. No sign of anything.

You lay there with your eyes open, your arms tight around yourself beneath the blanket, and tried to pull your memories apart—one thread at a time—looking for the lie.

Maybe you had imagined the blood. Maybe the body wasn’t real.

Or maybe he’d moved everything. Cleaned it. Rewritten it.

Like a page he didn’t want you to read again.

“Your heart rate’s still high,” Dr. Greyson said softly, checking the monitor beside you. “You’re spiking again. You need to breathe, alright? Just—stay with me.”

You tried.

But your fingers were shaking again. Your chest wouldn’t rise evenly. The fear was coming back in waves, no longer sharp but slow, like something poisoning your veins from the inside. You couldn’t have imagined all of this. You weren’t turning crazy, right..? Being caged in the hospital would not be your doom, right? 

You wanted to live.

“Let me grab someone,” he said, already halfway to the door. “Dr. Zayne should still be on rotation tonight—he’s the best we have for cardiac stability. I’ll have him take a look at you.”

Your stomach turned.

“No.” It came out barely above a whisper. “No, I’m—I’m okay, I just need—”

But he was already waving down the hall. You heard the soft rhythm of footsteps before you saw him.

Zayne appeared in the doorway like he had never been anywhere else. White coat. Perfectly fitted gloves. Calm, unreadable eyes.

He stepped inside as Dr. Greyson called him over, the monitor still beeping too fast beside your bed, your breath catching like it had forgotten what safety ever felt like.

“Dr. Zayne—she had a cardiac event last night, and her rate’s still spiking,” Greyson said,his concern thick in his voice. “Mind taking a quick look?”

Zayne’s gaze shifted to you.

No recognition. No guilt. Just that same calm you remembered—not from the last time he saw you, but from every time before.

“Of course,” he said.

Zayne moved closer.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just steady—like the soft glide of something inevitable.

You wanted to pull your hand away. You wanted to scream but your fingers were locked around the blanket, your muscles coiled too tight, like even your own body didn’t trust you to move correctly.

“She’s still a bit tachycardic,” Greyson said, stepping aside. “Vitals are stable otherwise, but I figured you’d want to confirm.”

Zayne didn’t answer with words. He just reached for your arm—clean, practiced. His gloved fingers closed gently around your wrist.

And suddenly you were back there.

On the floor. Your lungs collapsing. His eyes watching you fall apart.

His fingers pressed against your pulse now—like they had then—and it took every shred of strength you had not to recoil.

“Still elevated,” he murmured, mostly for Greyson’s benefit. “Likely from residual anxiety.”

Then—

His thumb moved. Just slightly. Not in a diagnostic pattern. Not something any other doctor would notice. A slow, deliberate stroke against the inside of your wrist.

Your eyes snapped to his.

His gaze was calm. Direct. Empty.

And then he leaned in, just close enough that Greyson couldn’t hear, just close enough that his breath skimmed the edge of your cheek.

“You remember,” he whispered.

A shiver ran through you.

“That’s good.”

Your body seized up.

The fear didn’t just spike—it detonated.

Your chest pulled tight, tighter, then tighter still, until your ribs felt like they were being crushed from the inside. Your vision blurred. The lights fractured.

You gasped.

But there was no air.

No oxygen. No sound. Just the sharp, high-pitched scream of the monitor as your vitals plummeted. Greyson cursed somewhere behind the ringing in your ears, reaching for the call button. But Zayne didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush.

He watched.

Watched as your eyes rolled back, as your body went slack, as the machines lit up with panic.

And then—he smiled.

Just for a second.

Small.

Quiet.

Like something in you had just confirmed something in him.

“Clear the line,” he said smoothly, already reaching for the crash cart. “She’s fibrillating.”

His hands were fast. Precise.

He pushed Greyson aside without looking, already fitting the oxygen mask over your face, adjusting the IV drip, his voice calm and clipped as he issued commands.

“Sodium bicarbonate—ten cc’s. Push now.”

You were slipping.

But you could still feel it.

The pressure of his hands on you. The cold calm in his voice. He was saving you.

But only because he wanted you alive.

You woke to silence.

No voices. No footsteps in the hall. Just the gentle hum of machinery and the soft hiss of the IV beside you.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You lay still in the narrow hospital bed, the room lit only by the faint electronic glow of monitors—cold, blue-white halos that made everything feel half-real.

Your body ached in a way that told you you’d been unconscious again. Your limbs were heavy, your chest tight, and somewhere in the hollow beneath your ribs, fear still curled like smoke—but it was duller now. Not gone, just quieter.

You told yourself it was over.

That whatever had happened before—whatever had broken you open in the dark, whatever had made you collapse under the weight of your own heartbeat—was behind you now.

That you were safe.

You let the tears come slowly, without sound, tracking hot lines down your cheeks.

You didn’t sob. You didn’t scream.

You cried the way exhausted people cry—quietly, weakly, as if even the act of mourning had to be done gently now, in case your body couldn’t take it.

And as the tears slipped past your temples into your hair, you whispered apologies to no one.

To the man in the basement. To yourself. To the version of you who used to believe doctors were only here to help.

Your breathing steadied, even as your eyes blurred again.

You thought you were alone.

Until the silence blinked.

Not broke—blinked.

Like something in the room had moved without moving. Like the stillness had shifted just enough to pull your attention toward it. Your eyes, sluggish and red-rimmed, drifted toward the far corner of the room—

—and that’s when you saw him.

Sitting. Perfectly still. Half-shrouded in shadow, his white coat faintly illuminated by the blue glow of your monitors.

Dr. Zayne.

Not standing. Not speaking. Not making his presence known.

Just there.

His gloved hand rested lightly on the arm of the chair, the other on one knee. His legs were crossed neatly, his posture pristine—as if he hadn’t shifted once since you were brought back here.

And his eyes—

They weren’t soft. They weren’t cruel.

They were measuring.

Like he wasn’t watching a girl cry—

He was watching the aftershock of an experiment.

And when your breath caught in your throat, sharp and sudden, he didn’t blink. He simply said, in the same calm voice he’d used while pressing a scalpel into someone’s chest,

“You stabilized quicker this time.”

A pause.

Then, with that same clinical curiosity—

“That’s promising.”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t ask how you were feeling.

He already knew.

“You were afraid,” he said, as if you hadn’t just spent the last several minutes trying to forget. “But the second event was shorter. Less severe.”

You said nothing.

Your body still hasn't caught up with your mind, and your mind… your mind was treading water in something dark and endless, struggling to stay afloat under the weight of his voice.

Zayne uncrossed his legs slowly. His coat shifted slightly.

“Tell me what you remember.”

It wasn’t a request.

It wasn’t even an order.

It was a line dropped into the silence—a net, cast to see what you would offer.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You couldn’t make yourself speak. Not to him. Not like this.

“The man in the basement,” he said, as if reading the gaps in your breath. “Do you remember how he looked?”

Your lips trembled.

“Y-yes,” you whispered.

Zayne’s head tilted.

“Were you afraid of him?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Of me, then.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He smiled faintly. Not pleased. Not mocking. Just… confirming.

“The heart stops differently in each person,” he said, almost conversational. “The way it fights. The sounds. I’ve studied a many. In books or real life.” His voice softened, like he was speaking to himself now, remembering things you could never understand. “But yours,” he said slowly, “didn’t want to give up.”

He paused, just long enough for the silence to press in again.

“Was that because you didn’t want to die?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

But your eyes—wet, bloodshot, wide—told him everything.

Zayne leaned forward, just slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded. His gloved thumbs pressed together in thought.

“Most people beg when they know,” he said. “You did, too. But that wasn’t what interested me.”

Your breath hitched.

He watched.

“It was the look on your face,” he continued quietly. “Not terror. Not even desperation.”

His eyes met yours.

“It was sorrow. Like you weren’t afraid to die—just afraid it would hurt.”

His words settled on your skin like ice.

And then—so softly you almost missed it—

“Did it?”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. He was asking if you felt yourself dying.

And for the first time… it didn’t sound like a warning.

It sounded like a test.

You couldn’t speak.

Your mouth was open, your lungs pulled tight, but no sound came out—not even a breath worth calling a word.

And for a moment, it was enough.

Zayne didn’t press. He just watched.

But then, without a single change in his expression, he stood.

Smooth. Quiet.

The chair gave a soft creak behind him as he turned, walking with steady, soundless steps to the small cart near your bedside—one used by every doctor, every nurse, filled with the usual assortment of tools and vials.

You knew that cart. You have seen it every day. And you’d never feared it before.

Until now.

Zayne’s fingers moved without hesitation, gloved and practiced, choosing something from the tray.

A small syringe.

Glass vial.

Clear liquid.

He held it to the light briefly, tapped it once with his finger, then pressed the plunger until a thin bead of fluid shimmered at the tip.

You choked out a breath—dry, broken, more panic than sound.

He turned back to you, expression unchanged.

“It’s not lethal,” he said flatly, as if discussing something mundane. “But it can be.”

You stared at the needle. Your heart pounded against your ribs. The machine at your side began beeping faster.

“A little too much, and your system will seize,” Zayne continued. “But just enough, and you’ll sleep without pain. No struggle. No fear.”

He took a step toward you.

“I’m giving you a choice.”

Your breath shook.

“Speak,” he said calmly. “Tell me what you’re feeling. Let me understand you.”

Another pause.

“Or I’ll take away the part of you that makes this interesting.”His voice never rose. “And end it quietly.”

The needle glinted under the monitor’s glow. And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t trying to scare you.

He was just explaining what came next.

The beeping beside you blurred into a high, thin rhythm—sharp and panicked.

Zayne didn’t acknowledge it. He stepped closer, unhurried, like a surgeon prepping for a routine procedure. His coat brushed the edge of the bed as he came to your side, syringe in hand, and reached for your arm with clinical ease.

You tried to pull away. But your muscles wouldn’t respond.

The exhaustion, the fear, the weight of everything you’d seen—it kept you rooted there, trembling, barely able to breathe.

He caught your wrist with one gloved hand, steadying it gently, and rolled your sleeve up just enough to find the vein.

Then he pressed the needle lightly to your skin.

Cold. Thin. So sharp you could already feel the sting before it broke the surface.

Zayne’s face hovered just above yours—close enough to see the shadow of your panic in his eyes.

“One last chance,” he said quietly.

Not threatening.

Not kind.

Just… final.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “what you were feeling.”

His finger shifted slightly on the plunger.

“Or I stop wondering what it felt like.”

The implication hung in the silence, colder than the steel tip on your skin. Your heart gave a jolt. And the breath you didn’t realize you were holding finally broke free—ragged, high-pitched, full of something primal.

Terror.

“I—I don’t want to die.”

The words tore out of you, cracked and high and soaked in the kind of panic that didn’t sound like language anymore.

“Please, please, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to see anything, I didn’t—I didn’t ask to—”

Your voice broke. You couldn’t stop crying now. The tears spilled too fast, the words tumbling after them in pieces.

“I was just feeding the cat—I didn’t know—you were just there and I—I didn’t mean—”

The needle still pressed against your arm, unmoving.

Zayne didn’t speak.

He just watched.

His eyes traced your face—flushed, wet, twisted in terror. Your mouth was trembling too hard to form full sentences. The panic trembling through your chest like your heart might leap out and fall apart at his feet.

Slowly, he pulled the syringe back. Just a few centimeters. Not gone. Not discarded. Just… paused.

“Good,” he said softly.

You didn’t know what he meant. But in that moment, you understood something else: He hadn’t decided to let you live. He’d decided to wait. And that was somehow worse.

“Do you still believe in right and wrong?”

His voice was quiet, almost idle, as though he were asking what you thought of the weather.

You blinked up at him, the tears still clinging to your lashes, your breath stuttering in uneven pulls.

He didn’t repeat the question. He didn’t need to.

“Y-yes,” you whispered, voice thin but trembling with something almost close to anger. Maybe you were so exhausted you didn’t care anymore. You were doomed to die, from your illness, you didn’t care anymore.. or did you? “And someone like you… someone like you is going to end up in prison.”

You regretted it immediately. Your heart stuttered. Your entire body locked up like you’d just thrown yourself off a ledge.

But Zayne…

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t threaten.

Instead, he looked at you—really looked—his head tilting just slightly to the side.

And then he smiled. Small. Barely there.

But unmistakably amused.

“Prison?” he said softly, as if testing the word. “You think this world is built to contain people like me?” He stepped back, finally releasing your wrist, the syringe disappearing silently into the pocket of his coat.

“No,” he continued. “People like me keep the system functioning.”

A beat.

“People like you just bleed for it.”

Then—quietly, with the same gentleness one might use to tuck in a patient—he reached for your shoulder.

His gloved hand settled against you, light but impossibly heavy, as if he were anchoring you to the bed.

“I’m not going to kill you tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, unhurried. “Too many rounds. Too many eyes. Timing matters.”

His thumb moved, just barely, against your collarbone—like a doctor taking your pulse.

“Next time,” he added. “I’ll be less busy.”

But he didn’t move away.

His hand stayed there, cool through the glove, resting against your skin as if he were gauging more than vitals. As if he were trying to feel the echo of your fear, the memory of your panic still trembling beneath the surface.

He leaned in slightly, his face unreadable, eyes roaming over yours—not like a man looking for answers, but like a scientist watching for cracks.

His hand lingered, gloved fingers cool against your skin, as if he were reading something far more complex than vitals. His gaze flicked over your face—not with care, not with empathy, but with calculation. Like you were a puzzle still unfolding in real time.

Your lips trembled. Your breath caught again.

He tilted his head slightly.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Still alive in there.”

Then, just for a moment, he looked away.

And you moved.

Your fingers, hidden beneath the blanket, reached toward the tray table—toward the pen, the scalpel, anything sharp. Your hand shook, but you moved with purpose.

You weren’t sure if you meant to defend yourself or die on your own terms.

But before your fingers could close around the metal—

“Careful.”

His voice stopped you cold.

You froze.

His eyes were back on you. Unblinking.

“I’d hate to misinterpret your intentions,” he said calmly. His voice had cut through the air like a scalpel. “Careful,” Zayne said again, stepping closer.

He reached down and took the sharp object from your fingers—not violently, not even with pressure—just a calm, quiet removal, as if you were a child who had picked up something dangerous without understanding it.

“I don’t think you meant to attack me,” he murmured. “If you had, you wouldn’t have hesitated.”

He opened a drawer at your bedside and took out a fresh syringe. The sight of it made your stomach turn.  You knew that shape. You knew that vial. You knew it wasn’t a sedative meant for sleep.

“Your body’s still weak,” Zayne said calmly, drawing the clear liquid with smooth, clinical precision. “Your heart hasn’t fully recovered. You’re disoriented. Slow.”

He glanced at you—not angry, not gloating.

Just… measuring.

“This dosage won’t kill you,” he said. “But you won’t be able to move. You’ll feel everything. Just… not be able to respond.”

He slipped the needle into your IV port like it was routine. And as the cold spread through your veins, he leaned closer.

“I want you to remember what this feels like,” he whispered.

Your body began to fail you one piece at a time.

Your fingers went first—numb, tingling, like you’d slept on them wrong. Then your arms. Then your legs. Your chest tightened, your eyelids felt heavy, but your mind—your terrified, spiraling mind—remained sharp.

“I’ve seen this in animals,” Zayne said, sitting beside your bed again. “The flickering between panic and stillness. The way they try to scream even when their throat won’t work.”

He leaned in.

“Let’s see what kind you are.”

Your eyes rolled toward him. It was all you could do.

And he smiled—small, satisfied.

“You should be grateful,” he murmured. “If I was cruel, I’d leave you like this until morning.” He reached forward, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the back of one finger. “But I have patients. Rounds.”

A pause.

“You’ll come back soon enough.” He stood, adjusted his coat, and looked down at you like a man admiring a painting still in progress. “And next time you try to grab something sharp—”

He touched the side of your throat, right where your pulse fluttered erratically beneath the skin.

“—I’ll cut deeper than your pride.”

Then he walked out.

Calm. Polished.