The night shift always brought the worst of it.
Donna knew the smell of Montrary Soul after midnight—blood clinging to the air vents, antiseptic failing to hide the funk, desperation baked into the walls.
She was back in the ER before she could even ditch her gloves, barking orders at an intern who looked like he was about to cry. "Suction, dammit. You think holding the tube like that's gonna stop him from drowning?"
The intern stammered, "I—I'm trying—"
"Try harder. Or step aside."
She took the suction herself, steady hands moving while her voice stayed sharp. The patient—a half-reptile teen with a knife lodged between his scales—gurgled under her grip. Donna worked fast, patching him before the intern could blink.
She pulled her gloves off, snapping them into the bio-bin. "You freeze up again, you're out. Don't care if your daddy bought your med degree."
The intern's face flushed. No one defended him. Around here, Donna's word was law.
She pushed through the ER doors, scanning the hallway. Nurses whispered near the desk, one slipping a pill bottle into her pocket. A doctor leaned too close to a nurse, murmuring promises of better shifts if she "kept him company."
Donna clocked it all. She didn't intervene—not tonight. Pick your battles, or you'd drown.
Still, the hospital was rotting from the inside. She could feel it in her bones.
At 3 a.m., the janitor was still mopping the blood off Trauma One.
Tall, quiet, always around but never seen. Donna had walked past him a hundred times without a word. Tonight, though, something about the way he moved—the slow, deliberate strokes of the mop—set her teeth on edge.
She stopped. Watched him for a second too long.
"You missed a spot," she said flatly, nodding at a streak of crimson near the door.
The janitor looked up. His eyes caught hers—too sharp, too aware. Then he smiled, small and strange. "Don't worry, Doc. I clean up everything."
Something in his tone scraped at her nerves. She walked on, but the words followed her down the hall.
In Bed Six, a patient stirred.
Human woman, mid-thirties, car crash victim. But when Donna flipped the chart, her stomach twisted—half the injuries didn't add up. Too clean. Too precise.
"Doc?" the nurse asked, frowning. "This don't look like a crash."
Donna's jaw tightened. She knew exactly what it looked like. Interrogation wounds. Old CIA tricks she'd buried years ago.
"Write it as blunt trauma," she said curtly, masking her face. "We're not detectives. We're surgeons. Do your job."
But as she stitched, the woman's eyes fluttered open. Lips cracked, whispering hoarse.
"You're her," she said, barely audible. "You're the Ghost."
Donna froze. The nurse didn't hear. The monitors beeped steadily.
She finished the stitches, wiped her hands clean, and leaned down close. "Listen to me," Donna murmured in a voice like steel. "You don't know me. You never saw me. If you breathe that name again, it'll be your last breath. Understand?"
The woman stared, wide-eyed, then nodded weakly.
Donna stood, cold mask back in place. "Stabilize her," she told the nurse, and walked out.
By morning, the ER was quieter. Fewer screams, more whispers.
Donna stepped into the staff lounge, grabbing a stale cup of coffee. The same surgeon she'd humiliated yesterday was there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
"You can't keep running this place like a boot camp," he said, voice low. "People are scared of you."
Donna sipped, eyes on him. "Good. Fear keeps people alive."
"You think this is leadership? Breaking people down? Treating them like trash?"
She set the cup down. "I treat them like what they are. Weak until proven strong. This ain't Grey's Anatomy, sweetheart. It's war. And in war, softness gets people killed."
He sneered. "Maybe you should go back to whatever gutter you crawled out of."
Donna stepped closer, so close he had to look up at her. "This gutter's the only reason you get to play surgeon instead of toe tag. Remember that next time you open your mouth."
The lounge door creaked. The janitor slipped in with his mop, silent. His eyes flicked between them, unreadable.
Donna left without another word, but her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. Too many eyes on her. Too many whispers behind her back.
When her shift finally ended, Donna headed for the stairwell. The place always stank of bleach and mildew, but it was quiet, and quiet mattered.
She pulled her phone from her pocket. No new texts. Just that same blocked number sitting in her call log like a ghost.
She stared at it a moment, thumb hovering.
"Dr. G."
She looked up. The janitor stood halfway down the stairs, mop propped against the wall. He wasn't supposed to be there. Not in her spot.
"You lost?" she asked coldly.
He smiled faintly. "Just cleaning."
But he didn't move. Didn't blink.
For the first time in years, Donna felt something she hated—her gut tightening, warning her.
"Get out," she said.
The janitor tipped his head, still smiling, and left without a word.
Donna stood there, phone heavy in her hand, her mask cracking for just a second. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and shoved it all back down.
Tomorrow, she'd run the hospital like nothing was wrong. Like the walls weren't closing in.
But tonight, in the stairwell, she admitted what she'd been denying since the whispers started.
The CIA hadn't forgotten her.
And they were already inside.