The white Coats Whisper
The fluorescent lights of the hospital buzzed above, humming just loud enough to get under Ira Mehta's skin. She sat at the nurse's station, pretending to scroll through patient vitals while her eyes discreetly tracked the hallway outside Dr. Aanya Rao's office. It had been four days since Aanya vanished.
Nobody was talking about it—not the nurses, not the senior doctors, not even the admin staff. But something had shifted. It was in the way people avoided eye contact, in the unusually tight whispers exchanged during shift changes. A lingering unease had settled into the sterile air, like formalin clinging to cotton.
Aanya wasn't just her mentor. She was her anchor. Her protector in a world that had always felt a little too loud, too political, too brutal for someone like Ira. The woman who once told her, "Be a scalpel, not a sledgehammer." Her sudden disappearance had left Ira adrift—but the silence around it felt even more disturbing.
Ira glanced at the hallway again. Dr. Mehra walked past without acknowledging her. A week ago, he would've made a dry joke about her caffeine addiction. Now, nothing. Just a nod, sharp and sterile.
She stood and made her way to the staff lounge under the pretense of getting coffee. It was mostly empty—except for one figure lounging against the sink, nursing a paper cup like it was vintage wine.
Dr. Ishita Chauhan.
Of course.
Even at 7 AM, Ishita looked flawless—lab coat crisp, hair pulled back in a sleek bun, her ID card dangling like a badge of superiority. Their rivalry had roots—deep and tangled. From day one of med school, they had been on parallel tracks, always at odds, always compared. Ira, quiet and surgical; Ishita, charismatic and clinical.
"Morning, Ira." Ishita smiled. It was too smooth. "You look... intense."
Ira poured herself a coffee, pretending the hot liquid required her full attention. "Long shift."
"You and me both," Ishita said, leaning in. "Strange vibe lately, huh?"
Ira's ears perked up. She kept her face neutral. "What do you mean?"
Ishita shrugged, casual. "Oh, you know... Some of the residents are acting weird. Mehra forgot how to sign his own name yesterday. And did you notice how Patel is suddenly terrified of answering questions? It's like they're walking on eggshells."
So she noticed too.
"I hadn't," Ira lied, taking a sip.
Ishita tilted her head. "You always were a terrible liar. Especially when you're scared."
Ira froze.
Ishita grinned. "Relax. I'm not accusing you of anything. Just… watch your back. This place is too clean to be clean, you know?"
And with that cryptic line, she walked off, leaving a trail of perfume and suspicion.
Back on the fifth floor, Ira's unease bloomed.
Aanya's office had been sealed the morning after her disappearance. No one had mentioned it outright—just a casual "temporarily closed for inventory" sign taped on the door. But Ira had seen the cleaners enter late at night, carrying industrial bags. That wasn't how you dealt with inventory.
She waited until the floor was quiet, then slipped down the hallway, her footsteps barely audible. The sign was still taped there—off-kilter now, like it had been peeled and re-stuck. Ira knelt down, pretending to tie her shoelace, while her fingers traced the lock. Standard hospital issue. Easy to pick—if you knew how.
Which, unfortunately, she didn't.
But she knew someone who might.
Her fingers twitched with the impulse to text Ishita—but she stopped herself. No. Not yet. The rivalry was too raw, too risky.
She straightened and turned—only to find Nurse Kavita standing at the end of the corridor, watching her.
Ira forced a smile. "Just stretching my legs."
Kavita nodded slowly, her face unreadable. "Be careful, Dr. Mehta. This floor sees more than it says."
Then she walked away.
What did that mean? What did any of this mean?
By late afternoon, Ira felt like a ghost haunting her own hospital. Every conversation felt half-finished. Every staff member looked either haunted or hypnotized.
She needed answers.
She decided to go somewhere no one would be watching—the old pathology archives in the basement. Most of the active staff avoided it; files had been digitized years ago, and the place now served as a neglected storage room for outdated specimens and paperwork.
She swiped her access card and stepped inside. Dust danced in the thin beams of light from a flickering bulb. Rows of filing cabinets stretched out like headstones.
She moved through the space slowly, scanning labels. Patient logs. Surgical inventories. Nothing stood out—until she spotted a half-open drawer in a far corner.
Curious, she pulled it fully open.
It was filled with files marked R – Experimental Trials – Confidential.
Her pulse quickened. She flipped one open.
Aanya's signature. Dates from earlier this year. Terms like consent waiver, unapproved compound, surgical candidate under 18. A list of patients—one name circled in red.
She didn't recognize it.
But the last page froze her blood.
A blurry photograph—of Aanya and a man in surgical scrubs. The man's face was crossed out in ink, violently.
Below it: "Don't let her talk."
Ira backed away, breath shallow.
A noise—metal creaking.
She wasn't alone.
She turned, heart hammering. A shadow moved behind one of the shelves.
"Who's there?" she called out, voice tight.
Silence.
Then a whisper. Not words. Just... breath.
She backed toward the door, hand fumbling for the switch—
CLICK.
The lights went out.
She was swallowed in darkness.