Chapter 6: The Scar Beneath
The pediatric wing of Shantiraj Hospital had always been too cheerful for Ira's liking.
Murals of jungle animals danced across the walls, smiling suns beamed down from ceilings, and cartoonish clouds floated above IV poles like some kind of lie. But now, as Ira and Ishita walked down the hallway, the colors felt faded. Sick. Like they knew what had happened here.
Or what was still happening.
"You're sure she worked here last?" Ishita whispered.
"Three days before she vanished. She was scheduled for a shunt placement in Bed 12."
They stopped outside the room.
A new child lay in the bed now—thin, pale, asleep. No parents in sight.
Ira leaned close to the nurse's station. "Wasn't there another patient in Bed 12? A week ago?"
The nurse, busy with intake charts, didn't look up. "Transferred. Late-night order."
"Transferred where?"
A shrug. "Paperwork said Ward 3C. But 3C's been closed for fumigation since last month, so who knows?"
Ishita murmured, "So the patient just... disappeared."
Ira nodded. "Same day Aanya did."
They left the station, cutting through a hallway that connected to the old pediatric records room. A place no one used anymore—not since everything went digital.
The door creaked as they entered.
Dust veiled the shelves. A rusty ceiling fan spun half-heartedly above, making a low, tired clack.
"What are we looking for?" Ishita asked.
"Aanya was old-school. She didn't trust the new system. Said things got 'too easy to erase.' She might've hidden something here."
They split up, Ira scouring the 'G–K' shelf while Ishita took the older case files. Minutes passed in silence. Then—
"Ira," Ishita called. "Back here."
Ira rounded the corner to find her standing beside a low cabinet, half-concealed behind a broken printer. The drawer was slightly open.
Inside were three folders, bound in string. No patient names—just dates, handwritten in red ink. Each roughly two months apart.
Ira opened the first.
Bloodwork. CT scans. Consent forms signed by parents—but something was off. The forms were in English, but the signatures were shaky. Barely legible.
"These parents didn't read English," Ishita said. "They signed without understanding."
Ira flipped a page.
Underlined in red: "Trial 5: Subdural pressure response, Child B."
Then:
"Failure. DNR enforced."
Her stomach clenched. "They labeled him 'Child B.' Like he was a test subject."
The second folder was worse. Photos of a girl's skull—post-op. Surgical notes about catheter insertions that didn't match standard treatment protocols.
And at the back: a letter.
From: Dr. S. Menon
To: Project Lead – "Kavach"
Subject: Re: Escalation of Ethics Concerns
"Dr. Aanya Rao has begun asking questions. I recommend preemptive action. She has access to donor records and off-grid logs. This may compromise operational discretion."
Ishita muttered, "Preemptive action?"
"They planned to silence her," Ira whispered.
The air in the room grew heavier.
Suddenly—her phone vibrated.
She froze.
Blocked number. One message.
You're looking in the wrong place. Stop before you lose more than sleep.
Her pulse quickened. She showed Ishita the screen.
"They're watching us," Ishita said flatly. "Even here."
Ira stuffed the folders into her backpack. "Then we need to get out. Now."
But as they stepped into the hallway, the hospital lights flickered.
Then died.
Emergency red glow flooded the corridor again.
"Ira," Ishita said, voice low, "tell me this is a routine outage."
Ira didn't answer. Because she'd seen something, just for a second—at the far end of the hall.
A silhouette.
Watching them.
Motionless.
And this time, it wasn't leaving.