The hallway didn't fall silent all at once.
It thinned.
The shouting faded first—voices swallowed by closed doors, by fear finally choosing survival over argument. Footsteps retreated. Wheels rolled softly. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut and stayed that way.
What remained felt heavier than noise. It pressed inward, dense and expectant, like the building itself was listening. The kind of quiet that didn't soothe—it warned.
The echoes lingered longer than the sounds themselves, as if the walls remembered everything that had been said and were unwilling to let it go. Tension clung to the air, heavy and metallic, making every breath feel borrowed.
Then there was only the building.
The low hum of generators pulsed through the floor like a second heartbeat. Emergency lights glowed amber, casting the unit in a perpetual dusk. Shadows stretched and warped across the walls, turning familiar equipment into hunched shapes that made people glance twice before trusting their eyes. The barricaded doors at the far end stood still now, but the sound beyond them hadn't stopped.
Moaning drifted through the seams.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
Just constant.
Like breath.
Like something alive enough to wait.
Officer Daniels remained at his post, hand resting near his weapon, eyes never leaving the doors. Sweat darkened the collar of his uniform. He shifted his weight once, slowly, careful not to let his boots scuff the tile. Angela and Patrice stood nearby, neither speaking, both listening the way prey listens for predators it cannot see.
They had all learned the same lesson in different ways: noise invited attention. Attention invited teeth.
Every instinct screamed to move. To do something. But stillness was the only shield they had left.
Above them—three floors up, maybe four—a scream ripped through the building.
It was short.
Cut off.
The sound echoed down the stairwells and ducts, bouncing through the hospital's hollow core before dissolving into silence again.
The kind of silence that followed death.
No one spoke after that.
Not because they were told not to—but because everyone understood what that silence meant.
Sharon stood outside Room Four, staring at the door.
The placard with the room number hung crooked, knocked askew sometime earlier. A faint smear of blood darkened the edge of the frame where someone had braced themselves too hard.
Her reflection stared back at her from the narrow window—eyes too sharp, face too still. She barely recognized the woman looking back.
This was the last threshold.
Once she crossed it, there would be no pretending this was still medicine as she had known it. No mental reframing. No comforting language.
This was going to change her.
She knew that.
She felt it settling already, something irreversible threading itself into her spine, anchoring there.
Patel approached quietly. "They're settled."
The word felt fragile. Temporary.
Like a promise made of glass.
"Are they?" Sharon asked.
Patel didn't answer.
Nguyen joined them, gloves already pulled on, eyes too bright. McAllister came last, carrying a small tray he'd assembled himself—needles, vials, syringes, sterile tubing. Reyes hovered near the doorway, pale, jaw tight, hands shaking slightly at her sides.
None of them looked at the door for too long. As if staring might make it open on its own.
"We do this slowly," Sharon said. "And we stop the second he crashes."
"He's already crashing," Nguyen murmured.
"Yes," Sharon agreed. "But not alone."
She reached for the door handle.
For half a second, her hand hesitated.
In that pause lived everything she was about to lose—sleep, certainty, the illusion that there were clean lines left to cross.
Then she opened it.
The room had been cleared.
The bed was stripped down to essentials. Extra monitors crowded one side, their cables snaking across the floor. A rolling table had been dragged in and repurposed as a makeshift lab bench, vials lined up with careful precision.
Someone had taken the time to label everything. Someone had believed order might still matter.
And in the center of it all—
Evan.
He lay restrained at wrists, ankles, chest, and thighs. Additional straps crossed his shoulders now, added after the last outburst. His skin was flushed a deep, unhealthy red. Sweat soaked the sheets beneath him, curling the edges of the fabric.
The smell hit Sharon immediately—fever, salt, something faintly chemical beneath it.
Wrong.
His breathing was ragged.
His eyes fluttered open as the door shut behind them.
"Mom?"
The word scraped across Sharon's chest like a blade.
She stepped closer immediately, ignoring the way Reyes flinched.
"No, sweetheart," Sharon said gently. "I'm a doctor. You're safe."
His gaze struggled to focus on her face.
"You… you smell like her," he whispered.
Sharon swallowed hard.
"What's your mom's name?" she asked softly.
"Laura," Evan said. His voice cracked. "She said she was coming back. She promised."
Patel looked away.
Nguyen's hands stilled.
The monitors ticked steadily—too steadily, like they were lying.
Sharon leaned closer, lowering herself until she was at eye level with him. "Laura loves you very much."
Evan nodded weakly, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "She's got my sister. I was supposed to watch her. I didn't—"
His body jerked suddenly.
The restraints rattled.
A low, animal sound crawled up his throat.
"Hold," McAllister said sharply.
Evan's jaw clenched. His teeth snapped shut so hard it cracked. His hands strained against the straps, muscles bulging with strength that didn't belong to a boy his size.
The monitors shrieked in protest, heart rate spiking violently.
"Sedation," Sharon ordered. "Just enough."
Nguyen moved fast, injecting the IV with practiced efficiency.
Evan's body shuddered once, twice—then slackened.
Foam bubbled suddenly at the corner of his mouth.
White.
Thick.
It clung, stretching in unnatural strings as he exhaled.
"Jesus," Patel breathed.
Sharon didn't hesitate. "Sample it."
Nguyen swapped syringes and leaned in carefully, collecting the saliva as it spilled over Evan's lips. It smelled wrong—sweet and coppery, like blood diluted with something corrosive.
"His saliva's reacting like the blood," Nguyen said quietly. "Same breakdown."
Patel nodded grimly. "It's everywhere."
Evan stirred again.
His eyes snapped open.
And this time, there was no recognition.
He lunged.
The restraints held—but barely.
Metal groaned.
Evan snarled, foam stringing between his teeth as he snapped at the air, head jerking violently from side to side.
"More straps," Sharon said, voice steady though her pulse thundered. "Secure the shoulders."
Reyes moved forward despite herself, hands trembling as she helped tighten the restraints.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, though she didn't know if she meant it for Evan or herself.
Evan's thrashing slowed.
His breathing came fast and wet.
Then—just as suddenly—his body went still again.
The quiet this time felt worse.
His eyes cleared.
He blinked up at Sharon.
"Mama?" he whispered.
Sharon froze.
"I'm cold," Evan said. "Can you tell her I didn't mean to mess up?"
The room seemed to shrink around them, the walls pressing in, the machines suddenly too loud and not loud enough all at once.
Sharon reached out before she could stop herself, laying a gloved hand gently against his damp hair.
"I will," she said, her voice breaking despite every effort to keep it whole. "I promise."
Evan smiled faintly.
Then his eyes rolled back.
The monitors screamed.