By the time she was discharged, Jennifer carried more than a healing scar. She carried a secret that gnawed at her, distorting her every thought.
In the weeks that followed, the obsession deepened. Under the guise of routine follow-ups, she returned to the hospital again and again—watching, listening, searching for cracks in their facade.
Her polite, soft-spoken manner disarmed suspicion. The staff saw only a recovering patient. But behind her quiet smile, Jennifer’s mind worked tirelessly, piecing together fragments of unease.
She struck up conversations with nurses, slipping in harmless-sounding questions. They always remained friendly, but she caught the flickers in their eyes—the guarded pauses, the hesitation that left her wondering. Were they hiding something? Or was she chasing shadows?
One evening, arriving early for an appointment, Jennifer wandered the corridors with her phone in hand, feigning distraction. But her eyes tracked every passerby.
Then she saw him—Dr. Harris—striding quickly down a side hallway. His shoulders were tense, his expression unreadable. The calm, confident man she remembered seemed gone.
Her heart pounded as she followed, keeping her distance, ducking behind a linen cart as he stopped before a plain, unmarked door. He glanced over his shoulder, then slipped inside.