That night, the hospital felt different. The fluorescent lights seemed harsher, the hallways narrower, and the air thicker. Arjun didn't sleep. He had told Ananya to go home, to rest, and to stay safe, but she refused. She insisted on staying, sitting silently in the corner of Room 412-C, her eyes darting to Rohan, the bed, the monitors, and the shadows in the corners that only she and Arjun seemed to notice.
The first hours passed in tense silence. The machines hummed, the ventilator whispered, and outside, life moved on, oblivious to the storm inside. Arjun kept the monitor open, eyes straining, every muscle tight, waiting for the next anomaly, the next impossible moment.
Then it happened.
A soft sound, like the brush of silk against skin, echoed from the bed. Both of them froze. Arjun's heart pounded so violently he thought it might burst. He leaned forward, squinting at the bed. The sheets twitched. A hand, previously limp and pale, flexed slightly. A foot nudged against the blanket as if Rohan were testing the limits of his body.
And then, without warning, a low whisper filled the room. Neither spoke, but both heard it. A sound that was almost words, almost a voice, but not quite human. It threaded through the air, warm and cold at the same time, wrapping around them, pressing into their ears and chest.
Ananya's hand flew to her mouth. "It's… it's speaking," she whispered.
Arjun's breath caught. "It… it's not supposed to speak. No coma patient..." His words caught in his throat. He stopped. He didn't dare say more.
The whisper rose slightly, then fell, shaping itself into something that almost resembled a phrase: "Do not leave."
The words sent a chill down Arjun's spine. It wasn't just observation anymore. It wasn't just influence. This presence demanded attention, demanded obedience.
They both sat frozen, hearts hammering. And then the bed moved again, more forcefully this time. The blanket slid aside as if some unseen hand had pushed it. The monitors spiked briefly, heart rate and oxygen all fluctuating in patterns that should have been impossible for a comatose patient.
Ananya clutched Arjun's arm. "We need to leave. Now."
Arjun shook his head, his voice low and strained. "No. We need to understand. We can't run from this. Not yet."
The shadow reappeared, denser this time, more tangible, curling around the bed like smoke, stretching toward the edges of the room. And then, impossibly, it seemed to touch Ananya. Her eyes widened. She staggered slightly, breath coming fast. "I… I can't move," she whispered.
Panic gripped Arjun. He tried to reach for her, but his arm felt heavy and sluggish, as if the air itself had thickened. The shadow pulsed again, synchronized with Rohan's heart monitor. The entire room seemed to vibrate in rhythm with it.
Arjun's rational mind screamed. He wanted to call for security, for help, for anyone. But the hospital outside these walls felt impossibly far away. The presence in the room pressed against reason, against physics, against everything he thought he knew.
And then, the whisper came again. "You belong here. Stay."
Ananya's knees buckled. She sank to the floor, eyes wide, trembling. Arjun caught her, pulling her close. "It won't hurt us if we're careful," he said, even as his own body shook. He didn't believe it. He only hoped.
The bed shifted once more, Rohan's chest rising slightly, not from breath, but from some unseen force. His eyelids flickered, and then his eyes opened fully. A soft, impossible glow filled them, illuminating the corners of the room where the shadow curled.
Arjun couldn't tear his eyes away. He wanted to, desperately. But he couldn't. It was the kind of vision that seared itself into memory, the kind that made every rational thought flee. Rohan's gaze seemed to pierce through the room, through them, through reality itself. And then, his lips moved. Words formed, though no sound came out. Somehow, some force made them reach their minds directly: "They are mine. They will not leave."
Ananya whimpered. "What… what does that mean?"
Arjun shook his head, his jaw tight. "It means we're trapped," he said, his voice barely audible. "We can't leave until it decides we can. Until it's… finished."
The shadow shifted again, sweeping closer to them, pulsing with energy, pressing against their bodies, their minds. The air was heavy, thick with electricity and something older, something alive. Arjun realized that this was no longer about observation or influence. This was about control. The entity had been waiting, yes, but now it had asserted itself. Now it had begun to take.
And then the first of the nurses appeared in his memory, the first to fall under its influence. Priya. Meera. Aisha. Ananya. Each one had been drawn here, trapped, affected, and manipulated by a force they could not see, a force they could not fight. And now, standing in that room, feeling the oppressive weight of it pressing against them, Arjun understood the terrifying truth: it would not stop.
It had chosen Rohan, it had chosen the nurses, and now it had chosen them.
Arjun glanced at the camera. The recording was still running, still capturing every pulse, every ripple, every impossible movement. Proof existed, yes, but proof was powerless. Proof could not protect them. Proof could not fight back.
The shadow pulsed again, faster now, and Arjun's stomach dropped. He felt a pull toward the bed, toward Rohan, and toward the presence itself, as if gravity had shifted. He fought it with every ounce of strength he had, but the pull intensified.
Ananya gasped. "Arjun… it's… taking me."
He reached for her, but the air between them thickened, slowing him, twisting him, and bending him into the rhythm of the room. Every heartbeat, every breath, every flicker of light seemed synchronized to the shadow's will.
And then, in one horrifying instant, the bed shifted violently, the machines screamed in alarm, and a new awareness, a terrifying, pulsing life, filled the room. Rohan's eyes glowed brighter, and the shadow expanded, filling every corner, pressing against their minds, demanding obedience, demanding surrender.
Arjun realized the truth. They were not merely witnesses anymore. They were part of this. Bound to it. Controlled by it. And whatever force had lain dormant in Room 412-C for three years was awake. And hungry.
He clenched his fists, his mind screaming, refusing to accept it. Refusing to yield. But deep down, he knew the reality of the situation: Room 412-C was no longer a room of silence, of healing, of observation. It was a trap. And they had walked straight into it.
The night stretched on, the shadow pulsing, the presence alive, and in the stillness, Arjun understood with bone-deep clarity that the story of Rohan Mehta had only just begun and that no one would leave that room the same again.