The stairs were never meant to be used.
Not really.
They existed as a backup—an architectural afterthought for emergencies, for drills, for people who still had urgency in their lives. Misty hadn't seen anyone take them since she arrived. Elevators were faster. Cleaner. More discreet.
That was why Luna chose the stairs.
The wheelchair stopped at the landing without explanation. The orderly's hands withdrew. The sudden absence of motion made Misty's stomach drop.
"Stand," the doctor said.
Misty looked at him, confused. Her legs felt distant, unreliable, like borrowed things she hadn't learned how to control anymore.
"I can't," she whispered.
"You can," Luna replied calmly, stepping closer. "You've been standing every day. You just forget when it's inconvenient."
Hands gripped Misty's arms. Not rough—deliberate. They pulled her up before she could prepare herself. Pain flared in her leg, sharp and immediate, and she gasped despite herself.
A sound traveled.
Someone behind them laughed.
The stairwell echoed more than the corridors. Every breath, every movement, bounced back amplified, impossible to hide. Doors lined the walls—emergency exits, supply rooms, staff access points. Each one a potential audience.
Luna positioned herself just behind Misty.
"Down," she said.
Misty took one step.
Her knee buckled slightly. She caught herself on the railing, fingers white with strain.
"Careful," Luna murmured. "You don't want to draw attention."
That was when Misty realized—
They had already drawn it.
A nurse stood at the top of the stairs, pretending to adjust her badge. Two interns lingered below, whispering. Someone opened a door one floor down and paused when they saw her.
Recognition spread quietly.
Not shock.
Not concern.
Interest.
"Why are we—" Misty started.
Luna's hand closed in her hair.
Not yanking. Not yet.
Guiding.
"Because walking reminds you of gravity," Luna said softly. "And gravity is important."
The second step hurt more than the first.
The third hurt worse.
By the fourth, Misty's breathing was uneven, shallow, desperate not to sound like begging. Her injured leg dragged slightly. The sound of it scraping the stair edge made her chest tighten.
"Slower," the doctor said. "She's trembling."
"Good," Luna replied.
A phone appeared at the corner of her vision.
Then another.
No one said anything about them.
No one asked them to stop.
Misty's foot slipped.
It wasn't a fall—just enough to jolt her balance. Pain shot up her leg, and she cried out despite herself. The sound echoed, bounced, multiplied.
Luna tightened her grip.
"Don't be dramatic," she said quietly. "People talk."
Someone snorted.
Misty's face burned so intensely she thought she might faint. Her body shook—not from pain alone, but from the awareness of being watched in layers. From above. From below. From behind doors that hadn't closed.
Each step down felt like surrender.
Her blanket slipped slightly from her shoulders. A nurse reached out—not to help her—but to pull it back into place with clinical irritation.
"Modesty," she muttered. "At least try."
Misty's throat closed.
At the next landing, a group of visitors stood clustered around a vending machine. Their conversation died when they saw her. One of them stared openly, then nudged the person beside them.
"Is that—"
"Yeah," the other replied. "That's her."
The words spread faster than Misty could move.
Her legs shook harder now. The railing was slick beneath her palm—sweat, or condensation, or maybe blood she couldn't feel anymore.
Luna leaned closer, her breath warm against Misty's ear.
"This is what it means," she whispered, "when a story gets told without you."
Misty shook her head weakly. "Please," she said again. It was all she had left.
The doctor sighed. "She's distressed."
"And yet," Luna said, "she's still standing."
The next flight was longer.
Misty didn't know how many steps she missed. She only knew the rhythm of it—down, down, down—each one a small humiliation, a visible failure of strength.
Her foot caught again.
This time, she fell forward.
Not far. Not enough to injure her further.
Enough to put her on her knees.
The stairwell went silent.
Then—
A click.
A camera shutter.
Misty froze, breath locked in her chest. She could feel eyes on her back, heavy and expectant.
Luna didn't help her up immediately.
"Get up," she said finally.
Misty tried.
Her hands slipped on the stair. Her body refused to cooperate.
A voice from above muttered, "Pathetic."
Luna laughed softly. "You see?" she said. "They notice when you give up."
She pulled Misty up by the arm, not caring how it wrenched her shoulder. Misty cried out again, the sound sharp and broken.
Someone filmed openly now.
No one intervened.
By the time they reached the ground floor, Misty's vision blurred at the edges. Her legs barely responded. Her breathing was loud, humiliating, impossible to hide.
The doors at the bottom of the stairs opened directly into the main entrance.
Glass. Light. Space.
People everywhere.
Conversations stopped.
The sound of the hospital swallowed her whole.
Luna guided her forward like a presentation.
"This way," she said pleasantly.
Phones rose.
Misty felt the moment crystallize—the exact second she understood that this wasn't an accident, or a punishment, or even revenge.
This was instruction.
She stood there, shaking, barely upright, as people stared without shame. Some recognized her immediately. Others waited for context and received it through whispers, through glances, through the quiet certainty that something about her invited judgment.
A child pointed.
The mother pulled him back, whispering sharply.
The doctor cleared his throat. "We should move her."
"In a moment," Luna replied.
She turned to Misty.
"Do you understand now?" she asked gently.
Misty's lips parted, but no sound came out.
Luna smiled.
"Good," she said. "Because tomorrow will be worse."
And the doors slid open again, letting in another wave of witnesses.