Chapter 10: The Protocol
For a moment, no one moved.
Ira stood frozen. Rajat Menon's figure blocked the only exit, but it was the way he smiled—like this was all inevitable—that made her blood run cold.
"You've been very busy," he said. "Sneaking into closed wards, stealing confidential files... trespassing on restricted wings."
Ishita stepped forward. "What have you done to Aanya?"
His eyes flicked to her. "Dr. Chauhan. The prodigy. I had a feeling you'd show up eventually." He sighed. "Your name wasn't supposed to be on any of this."
"You faked it," Ishita snapped.
"I preserved it," he corrected. "You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get reliable signatures these days."
Ira's fists clenched. "Why?"
He tilted his head. "Because progress is uncomfortable, Dr. Mehta. And patients—especially the small, sick ones—don't always have the luxury of waiting for committee approval. These trials... they're hope, accelerated."
"No," she said. "They're cover-ups. Children are missing. Doctors are being silenced. You tried to erase Aanya."
At that, something flickered in his expression. Not guilt. Not regret.
Just annoyance.
"She was... inconvenient. But brilliant. She just didn't understand the bigger picture."
"You sedated her," Ira whispered. "Kept her hidden."
"She left her journal out," he said, glancing at the bedside table. "Such a sentimental flaw. I had to move her."
"Where?" Ishita demanded.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he tapped a code into the panel behind him. A wall to the left hissed open—revealing a narrow elevator.
"You want answers?" he said. "Fine. Come see the rest of the protocol."
Ira's heart pounded.
Trap.
But what choice did they have?
She and Ishita exchanged a glance.
Then followed him in.
The elevator didn't have floor numbers.
Just one word: Delta.
As they descended, Ira noticed the shift in air pressure. The hum of deeper machines. They were going underground.
When the doors opened, it was into a facility unlike anything she'd seen.
Rows of observation rooms lined a long hallway, each one housing patients—young, old, sedated, monitored.
No names. Just codes.
Group C. Group D. Group Theta.
"This is where the outliers go," Rajat said. "Patients without consent. Patients whose families wouldn't understand the risks. But whose conditions gave us a perfect testing ground."
"You're experimenting on people without permission," Ishita said.
"I'm saving them," Rajat said flatly. "Or trying to. Not all of them make it. But the ones who do—what we've learned from them could change treatment protocols globally."
He paused in front of one room.
Inside: a child. R.M. Rhea.
Still alive. Breathing. Unconscious.
"She crashed during recovery," he said. "But we stabilized her. She's one of the few whose data might complete Trial C."
Ira's voice trembled. "And Aanya?"
He walked them to the farthest door.
Inside, a bed.
Empty.
A set of surgical notes lay on the side table. A metal tag with her initials.
And a chart labeled: Transferred – Group Omega.
"She resisted," Rajat said. "I tried to reason with her. But when she started recording things—well, we had to be creative."
"You killed her."
"No," he said. "We upgraded her. She's in a facility overseas. We don't end lives, Ira. We redirect them."
Ira stepped forward, her body shaking.
"You turned our hospital into a lab."
He smiled.
"I turned it into a future."
Then came the sound.
A soft beep. Then a second. Rapid.
From Rhea's monitor.
Ira turned. Alarms flared.
R.M.'s vitals were crashing.
"No," Rajat muttered, rushing past them.
But Ira was faster.
She yanked the IV. Checked the pupils.
Fixed.
"Seizure," she said. "She's not responding."
"She's not supposed to be unstable," Rajat said, trying to inject another sedative.
Ira blocked his hand.
"You don't even know what you're doing, do you?" she snapped.
"She was stable this morning!"
"You skipped half the post-op protocols," Ishita said. "You're killing her!"
Together, the two women began emergency intervention—oxygen, suction, stabilizers.
And in that chaos, Ira saw the opening.
Rajat's ID badge.
She grabbed it off his coat.
"Time's up," she hissed.
They stabilized Rhea—but not for long.
Security would come. She and Ishita had minutes.
They ran, using the badge to access the elevator again—then the admin wing.
Finally, they reached the hospital's old server room—disconnected for years, but still functional.
Ira plugged in the USB.
Names. Records. Photos. Videos.
And Aanya's journal.
Everything was on it.
She hit send. Multiple recipients. National watchdogs. International ethics boards. Medical journals. Every outlet that mattered.
Ishita whispered, "Do you think it's enough?"
"I think it's the beginning."
As the sun rose over the hospital, a quiet tension blanketed the corridors.
Patients stirred.
Doctors arrived.
And somewhere, in the ICU for high-risk recovery, a girl with a pink bracelet opened her eyes.