Hospitals don't sleep. They hold their breath.
And Westbridge was holding tighter than usual.
That morning, the quiet didn't feel like rest. It felt like tension, stretched thin across polished floors and fluorescent ceilings. The kind of silence that didn't soothe, but watched. Nora felt it before she heard it. The shift. The subtle drag in footsteps. The way eyes lingered just a fraction too long before darting away. Not avoidance. Not yet. But attention.
Inside the locker room, the air felt different. Not warm. Just dense. Like the walls had absorbed the rumors and were exhaling them back out in whispers.
Nora opened her locker with the same controlled precision as always. She didn't turn around when the nurses behind her fell silent. Didn't react when voices dropped. Let them talk. Let them feed the fire.
"She's the one from 304," a brunette said quietly, voice thin with awe or fear, it was hard to tell.
"Did you see how she handled the OR?" another whispered. "Like it was hers."
"I heard they call her the Scalpel Ghost," someone muttered. "Doesn't talk. Just cuts."
Nora reached for her stethoscope, clipped it to her coat. Then she turned. Slowly. Her gaze met the brunette's, steady and flat.
"Ghosts don't leave trails," she said. "I do."
And with that, the room fell quiet.
No retort. No giggles. Just stillness.
She didn't stay long. She didn't need to. Let them speculate. Let them build myths around her. As long as no one looked too closely, she was safe behind the legend.
Whispers were useful. They distracted. They warned. They protected.
Especially when the real danger was still taking shape.
Later that morning, the halls buzzed with their usual rhythm rounds, clipped orders, carts wheeled too fast through tight turns. Westbridge moved like it always had. Efficient. Elegant. Blind.
Nora turned a corner and nearly collided with Rowan Hayes.
"You're everywhere this week," he said, flipping through a clipboard, amused. "I've seen you on three different floors in two days. What are you, surveillance?"
"Efficiency," she replied without missing a step. "But surveillance sounds more fun."
He smirked and fell into stride beside her. "You know there's a betting pool about you now, right?"
She arched a brow. "I should be flattered."
"Oh, you are. Half the staff thinks you're ex-military. The other half's convinced you're in witness protection."
"Only one of those is true."
He blinked once, stopped walking. "Wait what?"
She didn't answer. Just kept walking, her coat trailing behind her like a flag no one dared touch.
Rowan caught up, still laughing, a little breathless. "You are genuinely terrifying, Keane."
"Only to people who lie."
That shut him up for a second. Not because he was offended. But because she had meant it.
They walked in silence for a few steps. He studied her profile the way a reader studies a novel they know not to skim. There was something in his expression again. Curiosity, yes. But something softer too. Something he wasn't ready to admit. Maybe she wasn't either.
Still, she didn't push him away. Not yet.
Maybe because he made her laugh when she wasn't supposed to.
Maybe because being seen truly seen was dangerous.
But also, just this once, it was nice.
At noon, she passed Elias in the east corridor.
He didn't speak. Didn't slow.
But he watched her.
A look that lingered longer than it should have. Not suspicion. Not warning. Recognition.
Nora didn't break stride. But something in her chest flickered.
Back in the records room, the silence was deeper. Cooler. The kind of quiet that held breath and waited to break. She moved with purpose, pulling the familiar drawer, sliding out the same faded file with practiced ease.
Lily's case. The puzzle she'd rebuilt from pieces, from memory, from scars.
She knew every note by heart. Every time-stamped shift report. Every line of medication delayed or dosage miswritten. Her fingers ran down the page like they were reading Braille. But today, something caught.
A page that hadn't been there before.
New paper. Crisp. Not handwritten. Typed. Slipped between two older progress reports, tucked deep like a secret.
Nora unfolded it with care.
No header. No signature. Just three lines, printed in black:
You're not the only one digging.
Watch your step, Dr. Keane.
Ghosts don't stay dead forever.
She stared at the words for a long time.
Her breath stayed shallow. Her hand didn't move. But inside her chest, something cold began to rise.
Someone knew.
Someone was watching her back.
And Westbridge?
It wasn't whispering anymore.
It was starting to speak.
Hospitals don't sleep. They wait. Breathe. Watch. And Westbridge was watching. The kind of watchfulness that doesn't shout but tightens its grip slowly, like hands clasped behind a back. It lived in the way nurses lowered their voices when someone entered the room. In the way conversations stopped just a breath too late. In the way glances lingered too long and smiles tightened at the edges. Nora felt it as soon as she stepped through the doors. That subtle shift in the air. Less curiosity now. More calculation.
The locker room, usually filled with idle chatter and the muted clatter of coffee cups, felt like a theatre before curtain. Nora moved through it with quiet purpose, her coat draped over her arm, her stethoscope coiled like a second spine. She didn't rush. That would have given them something to feed on. Behind her, voices dropped to whispers. Not everyone hushed. One didn't. And that was the one she turned to.
"She's the one from 304," murmured a nurse with clipped brown curls, not bothering to check if Nora could hear her.
"Yeah," another one replied. "Took the OR like it was hers. Cold as ice."
"I heard they call her the Scalpel Ghost. Doesn't talk. Just cuts."
Nora paused, closed her locker slowly, turned. Her gaze found the last speaker, not sharp, not hostile just still. And then she said, calm and clear, "Ghosts don't leave trails. I do."
Silence. Dense and immediate. No response. Just the faint squeak of a shoe shifting on tile. Nora didn't wait for the next whisper to start. She slipped her coat on, walked out like she hadn't just thrown a blade across the floor.
She didn't mind the rumors. Let them grow. Let them curl around her name and build armor where there had once been skin. Myths were useful. They pulled attention in the wrong direction. Every theory someone invented about her was one step farther from the truth she was hiding. The deeper they stared into the story they'd built, the more invisible she became inside it.
Later that morning, she turned a corner and nearly collided with Rowan Hayes. Clipboard in hand, hair tousled like he hadn't slept in two shifts, and still, he managed that crooked grin he reserved for her. He walked beside her like it was routine now, like he belonged there.
"You've been on every floor this week," he said. "You surveilling the place, or just allergic to routine?"
"Efficiency," Nora answered without looking at him. "Though if surveillance pays more, I might be interested."
He gave a low laugh, tapping his pen against the clipboard. "You know there's a pool going on you, right?"
She raised a brow slightly. "Should I be offended or flattered?"
"Depends. Half the hospital thinks you're ex-military. The other half thinks you're on the run."
"Only one of those is true," she replied.
That made him stop for a second, blinking at her like he wasn't sure if she was joking. Then came the slow grin. "You're terrifying, Keane."
"Only to people who lie."
He chuckled, but something in his eyes lingered. That dangerous mix of curiosity and caution. Like he'd started to realize there was more beneath the surface, but he wasn't ready to name it yet. She could feel it in the silence between his words. He was paying attention, and that made him more dangerous than any whisper.
She should have pulled back. Shut him out completely. But she didn't. Not this time. Maybe because he made her laugh when she wasn't supposed to. Maybe because a part of her buried, locked, barely breathing liked that someone noticed her for more than her silence.
At noon, Elias passed her in the main hallway. He didn't speak. Didn't slow. But his gaze caught hers, and it held longer than it should have. Not suspicion. Not concern. Something quieter. Like he was watching a shadow he'd seen before but couldn't quite place.
She didn't stop walking.
The records room was colder than it had been yesterday. Not in temperature, but in presence. Nora moved with precision. She didn't need to check the labels. Her fingers went straight to the drawer. Straight to the file. Lily's file.
The pages were too familiar now. She had memorized their weight, their order, the ink smudges that bled along the margins. She didn't read them anymore. She just relived them. But today, something had changed.
There, between two progress notes, a slip of paper she hadn't placed. Clean. New. Out of place.
She pulled it free, heart steady. It was typed. No heading. No signature.
Just three lines.
You're not the only one digging.
Watch your step, Dr. Keane.
Ghosts don't stay dead forever.
Her breath didn't catch.
Her hands didn't shake.
But something inside her shifted.
Not fear. Recognition.
Someone knew.
Someone was watching her.
She stared at the message, then folded it carefully and slipped it into her coat. She closed the file, placed it back in its drawer, and walked out without a sound.
Behind her, Westbridge kept breathing.
But now, it was louder.