We did it at 3:17 a.m.
That's when the meds shift changes.
When the nurses trade coffee-stiff shoulders and the hallway cameras reset to their default cycle.
Isla timed it like she'd rehearsed it in her head a thousand times.
> "Twelve minutes max," she whispered.
"And don't stop unless you see your name."
---
The door wasn't locked with a code.
It was old-school: badge and latch.
She had a duplicate keycard.
Said she'd lifted it during her "cleaning assistance" shift.
The second the door creaked open, I knew something was wrong.
It wasn't dusty.
It wasn't abandoned.
It was active.
---
Steel cabinets lined the walls.
Labeled only with initials and five-digit numbers.
No lights except the one we brought.
We moved fast.
Drawer after drawer.
Thick files.
Case reports.
Misdiagnoses.
Redacted therapy transcripts.
But then…
We hit C.W. — Celia Winters.
---
And my breath stopped.
Because her file?
Wasn't just a folder.
It was a box.
Stuffed with memos, "incident reports," and session notes that didn't match what I'd seen earlier.
The entries were clipped, angry. Almost rehearsed.
> "Refuses correction."
"Manipulates other patients."
"Exhibits disturbing writing patterns — see attached."
There were drawings too.
Sketches of a girl behind glass.
Of hands gripping the edges of mirrors.
Of a red door labeled "GET OUT."
---
> "They called this delusion?" I whispered.
Isla shook her head.
Her face pale under the flashlight.
> "No… they called it noncompliance."
---
We kept digging.
Found other names.
Some I recognized.
Some long forgotten.
Some marked "TRANS."
Some "MINOR."
Some with crossed-out causes of death and dates that didn't align with their entry logs.
It wasn't a cabinet of care.
It was a record of silence.
---
Then Isla grabbed my arm.
> "Look. Top drawer. Far corner."
Inside was a folder marked with my ID.
My ID.
Before they changed it.
Before they altered my sessions.
> "You're not just in danger," she said, voice shaking.
"You're next."