The conference room was never meant for this.
It was a leftover space—windowless, neutral, built for schedules and staff meetings and polite disagreements that ended before lunch. Tonight, it felt like a place where people decided how far they were willing to go before they stopped recognizing themselves.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, one flickering just enough to make everyone look a little unreal, like they were already halfway to ghosts. The air smelled of stale coffee, antiseptic, and the faint copper tang that had crept into every corner of the hospital.
Dr. Sharon Leesburg stood at the head of the table, palms flat against its surface, grounding herself. Across from her sat Dr. Patel, Dr. Nguyen, Dr. McAllister, and Dr. Reyes. Their faces looked hollow in the low light, exhaustion etched deep into bone.
These were people who had pulled twenty-hour shifts without complaint. People who had watched patients die and still shown up the next morning. Tonight, even they looked shaken.
No one had opened the folders in front of them.No one had touched the whiteboard.
The marker lay abandoned on the tray, cap still on, as if even writing things down felt too permanent.
Down the hall, the patient still lived.
Barely.
The distant sound of labored breathing carried through the vents—wet, uneven, wrong. It threaded its way into the room like a reminder that time was moving whether they were ready or not.
"We need to be precise," Patel said quietly. "If we're doing this, we need to know what we're actually doing."
Reyes folded her arms tight. "He's still alive."
"Yes," Sharon said. "Which is why we're not touching him yet."
Nguyen nodded, flipping open her notebook. "Vitals are unstable. Fever is unresponsive. Neurological decline is accelerating."
Her pen scratched softly as she wrote, the sound too loud in the silence.
"That scream wasn't pain," McAllister said. "It was neurological disinhibition. Loss of executive control."
Reyes shook her head. "You're saying that like it makes this easier."
"It doesn't," Sharon replied. "It just makes it clearer."
Silence pressed in.
It wasn't the silence of agreement. It was the silence of people realizing they were standing at the edge of something they couldn't step back from.
"What are we actually agreeing to?" Reyes asked. "Because I need it said out loud."
Sharon didn't hesitate. "We observe. We document. We take samples that are medically justified while he's alive—bloodwork, imaging, spinal fluid only if it's necessary for care."
"No exploratory procedures," Patel said firmly.
"None," Sharon agreed. "No cutting. No organs. No experiments."
"And after?" Nguyen asked.
Sharon took a slow breath. "After death is confirmed, we proceed carefully. Limited scope. Focused questions."
"Heart first," McAllister said. "Sequence matters."
"Yes," Sharon said. "Cardiac failure, blood chemistry, then minimal neural tissue. Brain last."
Reyes closed her eyes. "God forgive us."
Sharon felt the weight of it settle permanently. "Yes."
They all knew this wasn't about curiosity.
It was about time.
About whether the next patient would die slower—or faster.
In the hallway, Troy Barlow woke with rage already burning in his chest.
Sedation had dulled his body but not his fear. Fear had nowhere to go except outward. It pooled in his ribs, in his throat, in his hands. He didn't know names. Didn't care who the kid was. All he knew was screaming—and doors closing—and doctors whispering behind walls.
That was enough.
He pushed himself off the gurney, ignoring the protest in his muscles, staggering into the corridor just as voices carried through the thin walls.
"…after he—""…heart first—""…samples—"
Troy's jaw clenched.
They're cutting people open.
The thought rooted itself instantly, solid and unmovable.
A nurse—Angela—saw him first. "Troy, you need to sit down."
"What are they doing?" he snapped. "Why are they hiding?"
"They're discussing care," she said carefully.
"That's bullshit," Troy shot back, loud enough that heads turned. "You don't lock doors to discuss care."
A woman sitting nearby flinched. "Sir, please—"
"Don't tell me to calm down," Troy barked. "You hear that moaning? You hear those doors?" He jabbed a finger toward the stairwell where the sound had begun to thicken again. "That's because they're doing something wrong."
A man nearby shifted uncomfortably. "Man, you need to lower your voice."
"You scared?" Troy sneered. "Good. You should be."
The moaning grew louder.
Officer Daniels moved closer. "Sir, quiet down. Now."
Troy laughed, sharp and ugly. "Oh, now you care about safety?"
Reyes's name floated through the crack of the conference room door.
"…ethically—"
Troy's eyes lit up. "Hear that? Ethics. That's what people say when they're about to do something unforgivable."
Someone stood up nearby. "You're going to get us all killed."
"They already decided who dies," Troy snapped. "You think you're safe because you're not on the table yet?"
The word table rippled through the group.
Fear found a shape.
The moaning outside surged.
Daniels stepped fully between Troy and the doors. "That's enough."
"They're playing God," Troy shouted. "And you're all letting them."
Inside the conference room, Sharon stiffened.
She knew that tone.
Fear turned outward. Fear with teeth.
She stood. "We need to end this."
When the door opened, the hallway was full.
Faces. Eyes. Suspicion thick as smoke.
People who had trusted doctors with their lives now stared like those same hands held knives.
Troy stood front and center, chest heaving, eyes wild—not cruel, not evil—just terrified and furious at the same time.
"They won't tell you the truth," he said, pointing at Sharon. "They're cutting people open."
"That's not what's happening," Sharon said calmly.
"You think I didn't hear you?" Troy shot back. "Heart. Brain. Samples."
Sharon didn't deny it. "You heard fragments."
"And that's enough," Troy said. "Because people don't need details to know when something's wrong."
The moaning swelled again.
Daniels raised his voice. "Everyone back."
No one moved.
Sharon took one step forward. "We are not experimenting on anyone. We are observing an illness that is killing people in hours."
"And who decides that?" Troy demanded.
"We do," Sharon said. "Because no one else can."
Some nodded.
Others recoiled.
Fear had split the room clean in two.
"This ends one of two ways," Troy said. "Either you stop—or people stop you."
Daniels's hand rested on his weapon. "Sir. Step back."
Troy stared at him, chest rising and falling fast.
He didn't hear wait until death.He didn't hear no invasive procedures.He didn't hear restraint or boundaries.
He heard danger.
And he made sure everyone else did too.
Behind them, the doors rattled softly.
The dead were listening.
And inside the hospital, the living were beginning to fracture.