But people do. Systems do. And hospitals, above all, are trained to do it beautifully. You wrap enough protocol around a failure, you can call it policy. You build enough silence around a death, and eventually, people stop asking who caused it.
The hallway felt louder today. Not from voices rising, but because they were sinking quieter, sharper, more intentional. Whispers have weight, and today, Nora felt the full pressure of them behind every door, around every corner, brushing against her coat like shadows reaching out. She walked with her usual precision, but something in the rhythm of the hospital had shifted. Every step echoed like it carried a question.
"Ice Scalpel," someone said near radiology. "She made Brenner look like an intern."
"She's digging for something," murmured another just past the OR. "You can see it in her eyes."
She didn't stop. She didn't blink. She had trained her face to carry calm like armor. But the truth was, every rumor was a ripple, and she could feel the tide turning. Ripples become currents. Currents drown.
The staff lounge smelled like caffeine and hesitation. No one looked directly at her when she entered. A junior doctor dropped a metal tray and muttered under his breath. Conversations dropped too fast to be innocent. People moved too quickly to be casual. Rowan, seated near the back, watched it all with that familiar quiet. He handed her a file, and this time, the line between concern and confrontation in his eyes was thin as a scalpel's edge.
"You were in the archives again last night."
Nora accepted the file without glancing up. "I like to understand where the system breaks under pressure."
Rowan didn't let it go. "You're not studying the system anymore. You're dissecting it."
She didn't answer immediately. The silence between them sharpened.
"You're not just looking for failures, Nora," he said, lower now. "You're looking for someone."
She met his gaze, steady as steel. "And if I am?"
He hesitated. "Then I hope you know what happens when the system starts looking back."
She didn't flinch. But something behind her ribs curled tighter. Because he was right. And it was already happening.
Outside the ICU, two nurses paused mid-conversation. One adjusted her name badge without meeting Nora's eyes.
"She gives me chills," she said.
"Yeah, but she saved 304," the other replied. "Cut before the chief even scrubbed in."
Praise never mattered to Nora. Attention did. The deeper she moved into the hospital's routines, the more those routines cracked beneath her steps. And people were starting to notice.
In the records room, she sought out the only version of truth she could still trust. Data. Facts. Lines that didn't lie when read the right way. The screen glowed coldly as she typed the search terms.
Case B-17. No results.
Lily Keane. Nothing.
Brenner.
The screen paused, blinked, then locked.
Access Denied.
Her fingers didn't tremble. But her breath grew shallower. That file had been accessible three nights ago. Now it wasn't. Not by accident. Someone had taken steps to bury it again.
She wasn't the only one looking anymore.
Behind her, a sound. A whisper of air. She turned.
Elias stood in the doorway, arms folded, gaze unreadable.
"Looking for ghosts again, Keane?"
She shut the file. "Just reviewing data integrity."
"The system flagged another access attempt this morning. Wasn't you. Wasn't me."
Her heart skipped. Not from fear, but from confirmation.
"And yet someone still wants it locked," he continued.
There was a pause between them, heavy and controlled.
"You're not just here to work," he said. "I know that now."
"And what exactly do you think I'm here to do?"
He studied her, the muscles in his jaw tight. "That's the thing. I don't know yet. But I can feel it."
"I'm here to save lives. That should be enough."
"Not if you're using patients to cover a war."
Nora closed the terminal. "Some wars deserve to be fought."
Elias didn't stop her when she moved past him. But his silence followed her down the corridor like a question she hadn't answered.
That night, Nora couldn't leave. Something in her wouldn't let her.
At 10:27 p.m., she was back in the hallway near pathology when she heard them.
Two figures ahead. Whispering. One male. One female. She recognized neither, but the tone made her pause. Their backs were to her, half-shadowed.
"They'll find the report if she keeps digging."
"She's already too close. That case should've stayed dead."
"Do we inform legal?"
Nora stepped back before they could see her. Her pulse spiked not from fear, but adrenaline. This wasn't paranoia. It was real.
She returned to the file room.
This time, she didn't use the terminal. She used her own access drive, hidden deep inside her coat. Connected it to the internal system. Searched manually, digging under the surface. Files not indexed. Notes not labeled. Redacted pages stitched together by pattern recognition and memory.
And then, she found something.
An old memo. Scanned. Dated ten years ago. Author listed as A. Brenner.
Patient presenting atypical symptoms. Recommended discharge pending psychiatric eval. Non-critical. Do not escalate.
Initials at the bottom: A.B.
She printed it. Folded it once. Slid it into the lining of her coat.
When she turned, Elias was standing there again.
"How long have you known?" he asked.
"Long enough," she said.
He nodded once. "Then you know what happens next."
She stepped toward him. "I'm not backing down."
"I didn't say you should." His voice was quieter now. Almost tired. "But you need to understand. You're not the only one who lost someone."
The truth in his eyes surprised her. For a moment, they weren't two doctors standing on opposite sides of a locked door. They were two people who'd both learned the same lesson: medicine heals, but it also hides.
"Then help me," she said. "Before it buries someone else."
Elias didn't answer. But he didn't walk away.
That was something.
When Nora stepped out into the corridor again, she didn't feel stronger.
She felt hunted.
And for the first time since she'd arrived at Westbridge, she wasn't sure if she was still the one holding the scalpel.
Or if someone had just picked up a sharper blade.