The morning came without truly bringing calm. The sunlight penetrated the curtains reluctantly, highlighting the table that was still messy with notes from last night. Joe hadn't really slept—just dozed half-consciously.
His eyes opened slowly. His head felt heavy, but his mind refused to be still.
"Maybe I just have to get out of this place." The sentence crossed his mind without emotion, like the reflex of someone who had held something back for too long.
His gaze searched for something on the table. He sat up slowly, lit a cigarette, staring at the glowing tip of the ember between his fingers. He opened the notebook again; the rows of numbers and names were no longer just data—but direction. Either towards the truth, or another trap waiting to close tightly.
He sighed, then stood up. "Ashford…" he muttered, softly, as if spelling out something that should have remained buried.
He slipped the notebook into his jacket pocket.
A few minutes later, the door to the room closed from the outside. Joe's footsteps left the damp inn hallway, descending the stairs towards the main road which was still wet. The air outside was biting, bringing a thin fog that hung above the asphalt.
The small terminal at the end of the street was still quiet. The bus heading east departed half an hour later—its paint peeling, the engine vibrating like an old cough. Joe sat in the back seat, staring at the fogged-up window. The remaining rain from last night still dripped on the bus roof, creating an oddly calming rhythm.
The journey to Ashford took almost half a day. The fog hung over the road, as if reluctant to leave.
Old buildings began to appear in the distance, almost collapsing, the town name signs missing letters. This town was like a scar that refused to heal.
The St. Luthier Hospital building loomed at the edge of the town, large but gloomy—its paint peeling, some windows boarded up with wood, and the front yard was left half-swallowed by moss. Not far from there stood a multi-story parking garage, old concrete with lights that flickered weakly.
Joe stood in front of the hospital's main door, staring at the sign that was barely readable. Inside, there was only one tired-looking old receptionist, writing something in a notebook.
"Excuse me," Joe said softly. "I'm looking for old patient archives. The ward code is... E-Ward."
The woman looked up, staring at him for a long time, her eyes avoiding direct contact.
"E-Ward?" she repeated. "As far as I know, this hospital doesn't have a ward by that name.
Most of the records burned during the incident five years ago. If any are left, they've been taken to the city department."
Her tone was calm, professional, with no suspicious pauses. But her restless eyes said it all. Joe caught the lie in the silence. He just nodded slowly, then turned and left the desk.
The air outside felt colder. The fog came down from the hills, covering part of the parking building next door. He lit a cigarette and walked toward it, letting his steps follow the sound of dripping water from a leaking pipe.
As he approached the parking garage building, Joe glanced at the parked cars. His eyes stopped for a moment on an old black sedan with a cracked window on the right side—the same car he saw on the night of the fire yesterday. A strange feeling returned, and he noted the license plate number in his mind.
On the ground floor of the parking garage, the atmosphere was silent and damp. Several old cars were still parked, covered in thick dust. The smell of rusty metal and damp earth filled the air. Joe turned on the flashlight on his phone, tracing the side of the building overgrown with moss and dry roots.
Between the cracked concrete walls, his eyes caught a faint rectangular shape—a metal plate that shouldn't be there. He approached it, wiping away dust and dry leaves, then found a small iron handle in the corner. A hidden door, sealed tight to the wall.
He bent down, trying to pull it. But it didn't move. The hinges were stiff, perhaps untouched by humans for years.
Heavy footsteps sounded from behind. Joe turned quickly. A man stood a few meters from him—a sturdy body, dark leather jacket, a snake tattoo on his neck looked faint under the dim parking lights.
"What are you doing here?" his voice was heavy, in a suspicious tone.
Joe straightened up. "Just looking around."
The man took a step closer. "Looking around in a place that even hospital staff won't touch?" His tone wasn't a threat... but a warning.
"I'm just looking for something," Joe replied flatly.
"Something, or looking for death?" The man grinned sideways, his hand slowly dropping to the side of his jacket—a subtle movement that was enough to make Joe tense up.
"Relax," Joe said, softly but firmly. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"Unfortunately, trouble is looking for you."
The man stepped quickly and knocked away Joe's hand which was still holding the flashlight. The phone flew loose, falling onto the concrete floor—Clang! Metal meeting floor broke the silence.
Joe stepped back half a step, but the man immediately attacked. The first fist flew towards his jaw. Joe ducked, blocking with his forearm. The bone in his forearm felt a vibration, but he returned a hard punch to his opponent's stomach.
The large body swayed for a moment, coughed, then attacked again, slamming Joe's shoulder into the wall. The concrete shook, and the metal plate behind Joe's back shifted, causing a heavy clanging sound.
They both stopped for a moment—both heard the sound.
The tattooed man narrowed his eyes. "You don't even know what you just touched."
Joe stared back, his breath ragged, blood flowing warm on his lip. "Now I know this place isn't just a hospital."
The tension froze again. The man straightened his body, clenching his fist again.
Joe shifted his stance, his left shoulder pressing against the vibrating wall.
Between breaths and grunts, the clang from behind the wall sounded one more time—clearer, like a mechanism slowly waking from a long sleep.