The footsteps were getting closer. My heart pounded as I darted through the hallway, clutching the file like it was my last lifeline. I could hear the men shouting behind me, their voices bouncing off the sterile walls of the clinic.
“Stop right there!” one of them barked.
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
The exit was just ahead. My fingers fumbled with the door handle, and I shoved it open, bursting into the cold night air. The parking lot was empty except for a single car—and Denny.
He was leaning against the driver’s side, pale and tense. When he saw me running toward him, his eyes widened.
“Calla?” he called out, straightening.
“Drive!” I shouted, my voice frantic.
Denny didn’t hesitate. He opened the car door, but his movements were slow, stiff—his injuries clearly weighing him down. I yanked the passenger door open and threw myself inside, the file slipping from my hands in the process.
“No!” I gasped, reaching for it, but it was already too late. One of the men had snatched it up, his cold eyes locking on mine as he backed away.
“Denny, go!” I screamed.
The car roared to life, and he slammed on the gas. My body jerked forward as we sped out of the lot, the men shouting behind us growing fainter with every second.
“What the hell were you doing back there?” Denny demanded, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“I was looking for answers,” I snapped, my chest heaving. “That clinic—there’s something going on there, Denny. People are disappearing.”
“And now they know you know,” he said bitterly. “Do you have any idea what kind of people you’re dealing with?”
I didn’t respond. My hands were shaking, and my mind was racing. The file was gone, and with it, any concrete proof of what I’d found.
When we got back to my apartment, Denny practically collapsed onto the couch. He was still recovering, his arm in a makeshift sling, his face pale with pain.
“You shouldn’t have gone back,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost defeated.
“You keep saying that,” I shot back, pacing the room. “But if I don’t dig, who will? Someone has to stop them, Denny.”
“You don’t get it,” he said, leaning his head back. “These people… they don’t stop. They don’t care who they hurt. If they think you’re a threat, they’ll come for you.”
I turned to him, anger bubbling beneath the surface. “Then why did you drag me into this? Why come to me at all?”
“Because they already knew about you!” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch.
We stared at each other in heavy silence, the weight of his words sinking in.
“They’ve been watching you for a long time, Calla,” he continued, his voice softening. “I don’t know why, but you’re important to them. And if you keep pushing, you’re going to make yourself a target.”
I sat down heavily, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me. “Why me?” I whispered. “I’m just a doctor, Denny. I’m nobody special.”
“You know that’s not true,” he said quietly.
I looked away, my throat tight. I didn’t want to hear it.
The next day at the hospital, my head felt like it was underwater. Every time I looked at a patient, the visions came faster, sharper, overwhelming me.
In the ER, I was examining a middle-aged man with chest pain when it hit me. A flash of him collapsing on the street, clutching his chest. My hands froze mid-exam, and I had to force myself to keep going.
“Dr. Deneuve?” a nurse asked, her tone concerned.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, stepping back. “I just need a minute.”
But it wasn’t fine. My gift—or curse—was becoming impossible to ignore.
Dr. Sinclair found me in the hallway after rounds, his expression as sharp as ever.
“Deneuve,” he said, his tone clipped. “My office. Now.”
I followed him, dread pooling in my stomach.
Inside, he closed the door and crossed his arms, his piercing blue eyes locked on mine. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I said, my voice too quick, too defensive.
“That’s a lie,” he said bluntly. “You’ve been distracted. Unfocused. Missing shifts, zoning out during rounds. That’s not the kind of behavior I expect from someone who wants to stay in this program.”
“I’m just tired,” I said, forcing my voice to stay even.
“Bullshit,” he shot back. “Whatever it is, fix it. You’re not as invisible as you think, Deneuve. People are starting to notice.”
His words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I nodded stiffly and left his office, my head spinning.
That night, I sat alone in my apartment, the weight of everything pressing down on me. Denny was asleep on the couch, his breathing shallow but steady.
My phone buzzed, breaking the silence.
I picked it up, frowning at the unknown number.
The message was short, just eight words: “You’ve seen too much. It’s time to come home.”