Chapter 8: The Red Margin
Ira stared at the recorder, Aanya's voice still echoing in her skull like a ghost performing surgery on her conscience.
They used mine to get to yours.
"I didn't know," Ira whispered.
Ishita didn't respond. She just knelt beside the locker, sifting through more files, scanning for anything with dates or names. But Ira could see her hands shaking.
"They're not just collecting data," Ira muttered. "They're building something. A system. Something that runs on us."
"Us?" Ishita's voice was too calm. "You think this stops at patients?"
"They had staff names, Ishita. Yours could be on there too."
She didn't flinch. Just said, "Then let's find it before they do."
They worked in silence, surrounded by the scent of dust, iodine, and something older—something rotting at the seams of the hospital's foundations.
Outside the windowless room, footsteps echoed faintly again.
But this time... they weren't alone.
A voice filtered through the vents—low, male, amused.
"You think hiding in the blood bank makes you clever?"
Ira froze.
Ishita mouthed: Recorder off.
Click.
They pressed themselves flat against the floor as the door rattled—once, twice. A pause. Then silence.
No retreating steps. No more taunts.
Just... silence.
Ishita leaned close. "He's waiting."
Ira's breath hitched. "Then we find another way out."
She scanned the walls. Behind one rusted oxygen tank, there was a ventilation hatch—barely large enough for a human. But enough.
With shaking hands, they pried it open, metal scraping on metal. The noise was a gamble, but they had none left.
Ira slid in first, crawling through the narrow duct, her breath loud in her ears. Ishita followed.
They moved for what felt like forever—until light filtered through a grate ahead. Ira peered down.
Lab 6. Abandoned.
She dropped into the room, then helped Ishita down.
The place was untouched—no signs of recent use. Shelves of outdated pharmacology manuals. An unplugged incubator. Rows of discarded vials.
But the freezer unit at the back was humming.
Cold. Active.
Ira opened it.
Inside were five vials—blood samples labeled with initials and dates. And beside them, a USB drive.
She stared. "Why leave this here?"
"Maybe they didn't," Ishita said. "Maybe Aanya did."
The USB's tag was handwritten: Vitréous. Batch C – Final Copy.
Ira pocketed it.
But as she turned to leave, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number. One message.
A photo.
Of the two of them.
In the vent.
Taken moments ago.
Her blood went cold.
Below the photo: Too slow, Doctor. Hope you're not allergic to anesthetics.
Then a second message. A location pin.
Radiology. Room 3.
A trap.
Or a test.
She looked at Ishita.
"They're watching us."
Ishita nodded grimly. "Let's make sure they regret it."
Back in Radiology, the air was too quiet. No humming machines. No buzz from the ceiling lights.
Ira pushed open Room 3.
Empty.
Except for one thing.
A chair.
And on it—
A folder.
With Ishita Chauhan stamped across the front.
Ishita froze.
Ira opened the folder.
Inside—scans. Brain activity logs. Signed consent forms with Ishita's name.
Only... she had never signed them.
"Ishita," Ira whispered. "They used you too."
Her voice cracked. "Or they're trying to make it look like they did."
Suddenly, a voice from the intercom, hollow and too calm.
"Dr. Mehta. You weren't meant to find this."
Rajat Menon.
"Leave it. And walk away."
"No," Ira said, scanning the ceiling. "No more walking away."
He sighed. "Then you're next."
The speaker clicked off.
But the lights stayed dead.