The rain had thinned by the time they reached the hospital district.It clung to the air in a fine mist instead, beading on windshields and turning the streetlights into hazy halos. Cars moved slower here, not out of respect, but confusion—too many entrances, too many identical glass fronts with different tasteful logos.Lara parked in a visitor spot that said 30 MINUTES MAX and had probably been ignored since the sign was drilled in.Adrian stepped out into the damp, the smell of wet concrete and exhaust mixing with something sharper: antiseptic, the faint metallic hint of sterilized air leaking through automatic doors.Ahead of them, four buildings shared one large parking lot:•Northside Sleep & Neurology Center – soft blue letters, a stylized crescent moon.•Greenway Behavioral Clinic – green leaf logo, all lower-case, earnest.•St. Michael's Rehabilitation Institute – white cross, old stone façade behind the glass front.•Harborview Private Hospital – mirrored panels, trying too hard to look like a hotel."You'd think people who can't sleep would want somewhere that doesn't look like a brochure," Lara muttered."They're not selling relief," Adrian said. "They're selling the idea of control."He scanned the buildings slowly.Which one would attract a man obsessed with 'mercy'?The sleep clinic was the obvious answer. Which made it almost too easy."We start with the sleep center," Lara said, already moving. "It's the closest to what Nassar traced, and the one most likely to have seen our victim."Adrian fell into step beside her, adjusting his pace to match hers without thinking.The automatic doors parted with a soft hydraulic sigh.Inside, the Northside Sleep & Neurology Center reception was exactly what a marketing team thought calm looked like: pale blue walls, soft recessed lighting, a water feature against one side wall where water trickled down textured stone. A digital screen cycled images of clouds and floating feathers, alternating with slogans:"Because Rest Is A Right."
"You Don't Have To Be Tired Forever."The waiting area held six chairs, all occupied.A man in a suit, dark circles under his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose as he stared at nothing.
An older woman clutched a large tote bag in both hands, knuckles white.
A teenage boy, hood up, earbuds in, blinked too often, jaw twitching.
A woman in scrubs sat slumped, ID badge turned backward, eyes closed but fingers tapping restlessly on her knee.They were all tired in different ways.Adrian saw it before he saw anything else: not just the slowness in their movements, but the micro-failures of posture, the tiny flinches at sudden sounds, the way their gazes slid off surfaces as if their sight and their thoughts were out of sync.The receptionist looked like she had trained very hard not to.Late twenties. Perfectly pulled-back hair. Makeup intact despite the hours. A name tag – MEGAN – and a practiced smile that tried to say "I understand" without ever implying "I feel it too.""Can I help you?" she asked, voice too bright for this building.Lara flashed her badge."Detective Hayes, city homicide," she said. "This is Adrian Cole, consultant. We'd like to speak to whoever handles patient intake and records."Megan's smile didn't falter, but something in her eyes tightened."This is about the woman on the news?" she asked. "The one in the apartment?""We're not commenting on that," Lara said automatically.Which, technically, confirmed it."We just need to check if one of your patients matches someone we're looking into," she added, softening it a fraction. "We'll handle the paperwork. Is your administrator in?"Megan hesitated."We try to protect our patients' privacy," she said carefully."You and me both," Lara said. "That's why we're doing this in an office, not the lobby."Megan flicked a glance toward Adrian, as if trying to place him in the pattern."Are you a doctor?" she asked."No," Adrian said. "I watch what happens when doctors run out of scripts."She blinked, not sure what to do with that."I'll… call Dr. Hart," she said at last. "Please have a seat."Lara headed for the cluster of empty chairs along the far wall. Adrian didn't sit.He stood near the water feature and looked at the notices pinned to the corkboard above it.•"Support Group: Families of Chronic Insomniacs – Thursdays, 7PM"•"Managing Anxiety About Sleep" – free seminar.•"New Research Study: Participants Needed – Treatment-Resistant Insomnia."A printed A4 sheet had been pinned over an older flyer.The headline read: "WHEN SLEEP DOESN'T COME BACK."Below it: smaller text, bullet points. He leaned closer.Have you struggled with severe insomnia for more than two years?
Have multiple treatments failed to provide lasting relief?
Do you feel your life is on hold because of your sleep?At the bottom, in bolder font:You are not alone. Ask reception about our advanced intervention options.Advanced intervention.He thought of a quiet apartment. A thin red line. A sentence on a wall.Lara's voice pulled him away."Dr. Hart," she said quietly.A man in his mid-fifties approached, white coat over a dress shirt and tie. No stethoscope—this wasn't that kind of clinic. His hair was carefully cut, streaked grey at the temples in a way that would have worked well in an advertisement about trust.His eyes were the only thing that didn't match the brochure: sharp, assessing, too restless to be fully tired but too practiced to be naive."Detective," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Michael Hart. I'm the clinical director. Megan said this was about a specific patient?"Lara shook his hand."We're investigating a death," she said. "We believe the deceased may have been one of your patients at some point. Lena Hartman." She spelled the last name.Recognition flickered, brief but definite."Yes," Hart said. "Lena. She was under our care intermittently for about a year and a half. I can't discuss her file in front of others, though." He glanced at the waiting area. "Please. My office."They followed him through a short corridor lined with framed prints of moons, stars, abstract shapes that were supposed to be soothing.Hart's office was small but carefully curated. Bookshelves. A desk with just enough clutter to look lived-in but not chaotic. A framed certificate on the wall: "Board Certified in Sleep Medicine and Psychiatry."He closed the door behind them, the latch clicking softly."Sit, please," he said.Lara took the chair opposite his desk. Adrian remained standing near the window, which looked out over the parking lot."You said Lena was under your care," Lara began. "Can you tell us in what capacity?"Hart's jaw worked briefly."I can't release detailed medical records without proper authorization," he said. "But given that she's deceased, and given the nature of your work… I can speak generally. And I can sign releases once your paperwork arrives.""Generally will do for now," Lara said. "Was she here for insomnia?""Yes," Hart said. "Severe, chronic insomnia, comorbid with major depressive disorder. When she first came to us, she'd already tried the usual routes—primary care, short-term sleep aids, cognitive behavioral therapy. She was… very tired."The word carried more weight than when most people used it."How did she find you?" Adrian asked.Hart looked over, as if only now fully registering that he was more than background decoration."Referral from her GP, I believe," he said. "And… an online article we were mentioned in. She was proactive. She did her research.""Did she participate in any of your studies?" Adrian asked, nodding toward a research poster on the wall.Hart's eyes narrowed slightly."We ran a trial last year on a new protocol for treatment-resistant insomnia," he said. "It combined medication, structured wake therapy, and supervised overnight monitoring. Lena wanted to join, but she didn't meet the inclusion criteria.""Why not?" Lara asked."Her depressive symptoms were too severe at the time," Hart said. "Our ethics board insisted we exclude anyone with recent suicidal ideation. She'd had… thoughts."He said it without euphemism, but with professional distance.Lara glanced at Adrian."She had old scars on her wrist," Adrian said quietly. "Parallel cuts. Faded. You knew about those?"Hart's gaze flicked to him sharply."You were at the scene," he said, making the connection. "Yes. She disclosed a history of self-harm. The scars were consistent with what she described.""Did she ever express a wish to die?" Lara asked.Hart exhaled, a thin, controlled sound."Many patients with chronic, unrelenting conditions express… a wish for it to stop," he said. "Pain, insomnia, anxiety. They say things like 'I can't do this anymore,' or 'I wish I'd never wake up.' They are statements of distress, not always of intent.""And Lena?" Adrian pressed. "Her exact words."Hart's eyes returned to him, cooler now."Why do you ask?" he said."Because someone else is using her words to justify what they did to her," Adrian said. "I'd like to know what the original sounded like before he turned it into a manifesto."Hart's expression tightened, then softened by a fraction."She said," he began slowly, "on one particularly bad night, 'I don't know how to keep wanting to be here when every night feels like a punishment.'"Adrian felt a faint echo.The killer's message: I don't know how to stop wanting not to wake up.Altered, but close enough to be a reflection."Did she ever ask you for… more final options?" Adrian asked.Hart's lips thinned."If you're asking whether she begged me to help her die, no," he said. "She asked me to help her sleep. There's a difference."He rubbed his thumb over the edge of a pen on his desk."We discussed euthanasia laws once," he added. "In the context of a news article about terminal illness. She asked if chronic insomnia could ever be considered 'terminal' in that sense. I said—absolutely not. It's debilitating, not fatal.""How did she react?" Lara asked."She laughed," Hart said. "Not because it was funny. Because she knew the system wasn't built for her kind of suffering.""Who else interacted with her here?" Adrian asked. "Therapists, nurses, night staff?""Several," Hart said. "We have three night technicians who monitor sleep studies. Two regular-day nurses. Four therapists in rotation."He reached for his mouse, woke up his computer."I can print the list of all staff who had contact with her chart," he said. "It'll help you narrow interviews when your warrant comes through.""That would be helpful," Lara said.Hart clicked through screens with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times.As he worked, Adrian walked slowly along one wall, pretending to examine the framed diplomas while actually reading the smaller certificate half-hidden between them."In appreciation of your contribution to the 8th Annual Ethical Debates in Medicine conference."Below it, a topic line in faded ink:"Mercy or Murder? The Fine Line in End-of-Life Decisions."He felt, just for a second, a familiar click."Doctor," he said, turning back. "Do you believe in mercy killing?"Hart froze for a fraction of a second. It was small. Most people wouldn't have caught it."I believe in minimizing suffering," Hart said carefully. "Within the bounds of the law and medical ethics.""That's not what I asked," Adrian said.Lara shot him a sharp look, but didn't cut in.Hart's jaw tightened."I have spent thirty years watching people live in bodies and minds that betrayed them," he said. "Pain that does not stop. Sleep that does not come. I believe our current systems are… inadequate in dealing with that. But I do not believe what happened to Lena was mercy.""You know what happened to Lena?" Lara asked quickly.Hart's eyes flicked between them."I assumed," he said. "Based on what I saw on the news. The nature of the wound. The word the reporter hinted at." He grimaced. "We tell people 'you have options.' Then when those options fail, we act shocked that someone else stepped in with," he gestured vaguely, "a darker one.""Someone like a relative?" Lara asked. "A partner? A… concerned friend?""Someone with a god complex," Hart said flatly. "We see them too. People who think they know when someone's life is no longer worth living. They are not healers. They're just impatient."Adrian watched his eyes as he spoke.There was anger there. Genuine.But also something else: an old, unhealed frustration. Not aimed downward, at patients. Upward, at systems."Have you ever lost a patient to suicide?" Adrian asked.It wasn't a small question.Hart's shoulders dropped, some of the defensive stiffness draining away."Yes," he said quietly. "More than one. Not directly under my overnight care, but… in the wider sense. They stop showing up. Then you get a call. Or you read a name in a report. You review everything and ask yourself, over and over, if one different word at one different appointment would have bent the curve."He met Adrian's eyes."You do that too, don't you?" he said. "After a case?""For different reasons," Adrian said. "Same loop."The printer spat out a few pages. Hart took them, stapled them quickly, and handed them to Lara."Staff with any recorded interaction with Ms. Hartman," he said. "Most of these are benign—appointment reminders, check-in calls. But they give you names."Lara scanned the list."Night technicians," she said. "Those three—" she tapped the paper "—we'll want to speak to them first."Hart nodded."They're not here until evening," he said. "They clock in around eight.""What about security footage?" Lara asked. "Lobby, hallways, external cameras.""We retain thirty days internally," Hart said. "Longer if there's a flagged incident." His brow furrowed. "Lena hasn't been here in months. We won't have her on recent footage.""But you'll have others," Adrian said. "People who come in exhausted, leave worse, maybe. People who sit in the waiting room and watch." He nodded toward the general direction of the lobby. "Does anyone spend more time out there than in a room?"Hart frowned."We discourage loitering," he said. "But yes. Sometimes family members wait all night instead of going home. Or anxious patients hover at the threshold. Or…" He hesitated."Or?" Lara prompted."We had a man last winter," Hart said slowly. "Came in three nights in a row without an appointment. Sat in the waiting area from midnight until four, said he was thinking about checking in, but never did. On the fourth night, security asked him to leave.""Description?" Adrian asked, too quickly.Hart thought back."Mid-thirties," he said. "Average build. Dark hair. Quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. He said he hadn't slept 'properly' in years, but he didn't want to fill out paperwork. He just wanted to 'see the place.' His words.""Did he give a name?" Lara asked.Hart shook his head."Not a real one, at least," he said. "The receptionist wrote down 'Jonathan Bell' on the contact sheet because we need something for the log. But his insurance card was 'forgotten in the car.' Three nights in a row.""Security footage of those nights?" Adrian asked.Hart's gaze went to the corner of the ceiling, where a small dome camera blinked a barely visible red."We might have overwritten it if it wasn't flagged," he said. "I'll have to check with our IT contractor. They store backups off-site."Adrian filed the description under possible, but generic. There were a thousand mid-thirties, average-build, dark-haired men in the city.Still."Doctor," he said, "has anyone here… expressed strong opinions about people being kept alive 'too long'? Staff, regulars, families."Hart gave him a weary look."Everyone in this line of work has vented like that at some point," he said. "You listen to enough suffering and you start saying things in the break room like 'if that were me, I'd want someone to pull the plug.' It's human." He paused. "But if you're asking whether I know of any staff who might turn that into action with a blade—no."He seemed genuinely offended by the implication."We're not accusing your staff," Lara said. "We're drawing circles. This building is in one of them."Hart's shoulders eased a fraction."I'll cooperate with whatever your warrant requires," he said. "I want whoever did this to Lena found. Not because of what it means for my clinic's reputation. Because she fought so hard not to become someone's case study."Adrian inclined his head."Thank you for your time," Lara said, standing. "We'll be in touch once the paperwork clears. Please don't warn your staff yet. We don't want to spook anyone with a guilty conscience."Hart's mouth curved in a humorless flicker."You assume someone here has one," he said. "I hope you're wrong."They stepped back into the corridor.The waiting room felt different now, as if his awareness of past and potential futures had layered over the present like translucent sheets.The man in the suit now looked less like a stressed professional and more like someone counting down the minutes until he could decide whether to keep existing.The woman with the tote bag whispered something under her breath as she stared at the water feature. He strained to catch it, but it was only shapes, not words.Lara touched his elbow."You okay?" she asked quietly."Yes," he said.It was almost true.As they walked out into the misty parking lot, his phone buzzed in his pocket.He didn't take it out immediately.He waited until they were in the relative privacy of the car, the doors closed, the outside noise dampened.Lara started the engine but didn't pull out yet."Is that him?" she asked."Likely," Adrian said."Read it," she said. "Out loud."He unlocked the screen.One new message from Unknown Number.You went to the place that taught her to measure her suffering in charts.He read it.Lara's hands tightened on the steering wheel."He's watching the clinic?" she said."Or he anticipated this step," Adrian said. "Hospital district was in the trace radius. He knows we're not incompetent."The next message arrived before he could say more.Did you like the brochures? \n> They're very kind here. They give you percentages. "Forty percent reduction in sleepless nights." "Sixty percent report improvement." \n> No one writes, "Three years of wanting to die and still being told to wait for the next appointment."Lara let out a breath through her teeth."Don't answer," she said quickly."I'm not," Adrian said.He copied the texts into his notes mentally, the phrasing already etching itself in.Another message.You spoke to Hart. He means well. He believes in bandages. \n> He doesn't understand that some wounds are the whole body.Adrian's eyes flicked up, toward the building.Several windows glowed with soft, artificial light. Behind one of them, someone might be holding a phone, watching for a reaction.He felt Lara's gaze on him."Don't," she said."I'm not going in," he said."I meant don't answer," she said again, sharper. "You promised you wouldn't without me or Doyle.""I remember," he said.He typed a draft in his notes app instead of the chat.You position yourself above them all. Doctors, friends, me. \n> You say you relieve suffering. \n> But you still need their buildings, their diagnoses, their failures, to justify your cuts.He didn't send it.The phone buzzed again anyway.You're quiet. That's good. \n> Listening is the first honest thing most people do.Lara swore under her breath."He's narrating our movements in real time," she said. "We need Nassar to re-run the trace on this batch, see if he's still on the same node."Adrian nodded."We should leave," he said. "No point giving him a live show from inside his favorite theater."She put the car in gear, pulled out of the space.As they exited the lot, Adrian looked back once.In an upper window of the sleep clinic, a shape moved briefly—a shadow crossing a rectangle of light. It could have been anyone: a nurse. A patient. A janitor drawing blinds.Or a man who thought he understood what mercy looked like, watching two tiny figures in a parking lot and deciding how they fit into his evolving story.His phone buzzed once more as they merged into traffic.He checked it.Don't worry, Adrian. \n> I don't work there. \n> They would never hire someone like me.He felt the faintest, irrational disappointment at the closed door of that possibility.Then another line came in, almost playful.But I've spent enough nights in their waiting rooms to know how they talk. \n> And more nights in other places where no one talks at all.Lara saw his expression shift."What?" she asked."He says he doesn't work there," Adrian said. "But he's familiar with the internal language. He's either a former patient… or a companion. A watcher. Someone who sat while others tried to be fixed.""Or he's lying," she said."Yes," Adrian said. "That too."He turned the phone face down on his knee, feeling the hum of the engine through the chassis, the hypnotic rhythm of windshield wipers brushing away fine mist."You're not going to answer tonight," Lara said, more statement than question."No," Adrian said. "Tonight, he talks. We log.""Tomorrow?" she asked.He didn't answer immediately.Tomorrow would depend on what he saw in the faces on that staff list. On what Hart's eyes had almost said and then swallowed. On what the cameras, if they existed, showed of a man who came three nights in a row without stepping past the threshold of help."Tomorrow," he said at last, "we ask better questions."Outside, the city's lights blurred past—offices, apartments, billboards for sleep aids and streaming services and loans that promised to make life easier in exchange for something small and invisible.In one of those anonymous windows, someone lay awake, staring at a cracked ceiling, unaware that a stranger had argued, in another part of the city, that their pain might someday qualify them for a particular kind of 'mercy.'In the passenger seat of a car, Adrian Cole watched the rain and the reflections and the red of the traffic lights painting temporary wounds across the wet asphalt.He didn't know yet where the next body would be.But he knew this much:The killer wouldn't choose his next "mercy" at random.He would choose someone who had already been told, gently and repeatedly, to wait their turn for relief.Someone who had knocked on every official door, and found only pamphlets and promises.Someone the world had trained to believe that their suffering was an inconvenience.Someone who would, in the killer's words, "ask nicely."Adrian let that phrase settle in his mind like a blade laid on a table.Then he reached for his phone again—not to reply, but to scroll through the message thread one more time, tracing the shape of the mind behind the words.Patterns were forming.They were not yet complete.But they were no longer invisible.