The stairwell was permeated with the sharp scent of disinfectant and the mustiness of old paint. Stephanie stood on the landing, her phone still in hand, the words from the call echoing in her mind like a haunting refrain.
If anyone finds out, it's over.
She hadn't intended to speak so loudly. The stairwell had been deserted. She had aimed for privacy, a necessity for her survival during these last months. Her choices had shrunk her world until only the essential remained.
She pressed her thumb against the bracelet on her wrist, feeling the familiar yet painful engraving. To us, no matter where we end up. Seven years had dulled the metal's shine, but not the memories it held.
Back at her apartment, she removed her scrubs as if shedding an unwanted suit of armor. The space felt simultaneously claustrophobic and exposed. She washed her hands, watching the water spiral down the drain, and tried to focus on her breathing until the tightness in her chest began to ease.
Her phone buzzed. A new message from an unknown number. Two simple words: Need you. Urgent.
Her throat tightened. She already had a good idea of who it could be before she even opened the message; she recognized the sender's style, always vague unless they were speaking in person. Her instinct was to ignore it, but another part of her urged her to comply. It was a habit born from guilt, a silent code of loyalty she had accepted without questioning the terms.
At Parkland, she had been meticulous. Careful in ways that wouldn't show up on charts or patient notes. She had once filed extra paperwork, shifted a non-critical entry to disguise a troubling trend, and had corrected an error to protect someone she cared about. At the time, those choices had seemed minor, but small decisions with human consequences often spiraled out of control, and the consequences did not adhere to any rules she had learned in medical school.
Setting her phone down, she hesitated to discover the sender's identity, knowing that every answer would plunge her deeper into obligation.
Sleep evaded her. When morning came, it carried the rich aroma of coffee and a hint of ozone. She dressed for the hectic day ahead, practical blouse, dark slacks, and her hair pinned back to keep it out of her face. The bracelet remained, a curious weight on her wrist.
Her morning was consumed by rounds. She moved from patient to patient with a skilled ease that reassured her colleagues. A child with a broken arm smiled at her silly joke, while a woman battling a sudden fever relied on her quick diagnostic skills and the comfort of her presence. In the midst of each small crisis, Stephanie felt the familiar urge to fix problems, alleviate suffering, and move on. The emergency room rewarded efficiency and punished hesitation.
But the message lingered like gravel under her tongue. At noon, she allowed herself a brief moment of vulnerability by the staff coffee machine, letting her guard down just enough to breathe.
"Steph?" Mariah leaned in, holding a chart like a protective shield. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just tired," she lied. Mariah, youthful and perpetually optimistic, accepted her answer and moved along. Stephanie chuckled quietly to herself, the sound feeling brittle in her throat.
At two, an administrator from the records department approached the nurse's station. He wore a blazer that did little to disguise his frequent presence in medical areas. Clearing his throat, he signaled that he had business to discuss.
"Dr. Hart," he began, "the board has a few questions regarding last week's records. We need clarification on entries 18 through 24."
She felt the color drain from her face. Entries 18 through 24. Those were the records she had manipulated, the slight adjustment to mask an alarming trend. It wasn't about a patient's condition; it was a vendor upload timestamp, an insignificant detail, but hospital administration thrived on technicalities when it came to budgets.
"Of course," she replied too quickly. "I'll review it and send the notes." She maintained a steady, professional tone, even as panic churned in her gut.
The administrator regarded her with a neutral patience, typical of those who assume a professional's life is orderly. "The board would also like to schedule a brief meeting tomorrow. No more than thirty minutes. They want to wrap this up before the weekend."
Her throat felt dry. "Okay."
Once he left, she excused herself and shut herself in a supply closet barely big enough for two people. She sat on the floor, back against the metal shelves, pulling her knees close. She breathed through the spaces between her fingers.
The message nagged at her mind. Need you. Urgent. She should call the sender and demand answers. She should report the administrator's inquiry and confess to the modification. Both options felt like a leap into the unknown. One could liberate her while damaging someone else. The other could protect the secret but jeopardize her career.
Thoughts of Ethan flashed through her mind. Seven years ago, they had both made choices, he had chosen momentum, and she had chosen healing. Neither had foreseen the true cost of those decisions.
By five, she slipped away to make a phone call. She wanted to avoid a written message. Meeting face to face had always been their rule.
"No drama?" she whispered into the receiver. "I can't handle drama."
There was a pause, then a low chuckle. "You never could."
"Where?" she asked.
"Alley behind the south wing. Ten minutes."
Glancing through the glass at the evening shift beginning, she saw people moving like clock hands, precise and practiced. She had ten minutes, maybe less, to decide how much she was willing to risk to protect someone else.
As she stepped into the dim light of the alley, remnants of yesterday's rain formed dark puddles reflecting the hospital's security lights. A man stood with his back against a brick wall, collar turned up, hands in pockets. He had the broad shoulders of someone accustomed to being noticed and the patience of someone who never rushed.
"You took your time," he said without turning.
"I had rounds," she replied. "You said you needed me."
He stepped forward, the shadow of his hood obscuring his face, but his voice was soft, like a threat disguised as an offer. "There was a complication with the data transfer. The vendor uploaded a test file into live records, exposing some billing anomalies. You know that could trigger an audit."
She clenched her fists. "I fixed it. I corrected the timestamp and the metadata. No patient data was affected."
"You fixed it," he echoed. "That's one way to put it. Another way is to say you tampered with records."
"I did not tamper," she insisted. "I adjusted administrative metadata to correct an error. I kept it internal."
He tilted his head. "That's where we disagree. If the auditors discover what we found, you won't have a career to protect. You'll be left with questions you can't answer."
She met his gaze. He didn't need to name names. He didn't need to explain why he cared. "Who sent the message?"
He smiled, a grin that suggested he didn't want to relinquish control. "You didn't get it from me. You received it because you've shown you can be trusted. Keep your bracelet on, Doctor. It's a great conversation starter. But remember, promises can cost more than metal."
She walked away before she could say anything more. A chill settled in her chest. In the back of her mind, a persistent question arose, one she dreaded to confront.
Who had she saved, and what would it truly cost her?
The answer eluded her. All she knew for certain was that whatever came next would force her to choose between the career she had worked hard to build and the debt she had quietly incurred.
Later that night, when she opened her phone, another message awaited her. A time. A location. One simple word.
Come alone.
Turning the bracelet until the engraving blurred beneath her thumb, she felt the weight of it. The words now felt heavier than mere comfort; they served as a reminder of everything she had yet to tell Ethan, and how some pasts refuse to remain buried.