Scrubbed Out
Ira woke up to cold metal pressing against her cheek.
For a moment, all she could register was the pain at the back of her head—a deep, pounding ache that throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Her eyes fluttered open. Dim, flickering emergency lights painted the archive room in bruised yellows and sickly greens.
She was still in the basement.
Still in the hospital.
Still alive.
She sat up slowly, hand cradling her skull. Dried blood crusted her fingers.
What had happened? One minute she was reading that file—Don't let her talk—and the next... nothing.
She looked around. The cabinet where she'd found the documents was shut again. Neatly. Locked.
The photo, the files—gone.
Panic rose in her chest, cold and fast. Someone had cleaned up. And left her behind.
Why?
She stood shakily, legs stiff, and reached for her phone—but it wasn't there. Neither was her ID badge. They'd taken her things. All except her watch, which blinked innocently: 3:12 AM.
That meant she'd been unconscious for over eight hours.
And no one had come looking.
A shiver ran through her.
She took slow steps toward the heavy basement door and pulled.
Locked.
Of course it was.
She banged on it, once, twice—then stopped. If someone had locked her in, they probably didn't want witnesses. Drawing attention might not be smart.
Instead, she turned and began searching the room for an alternate way out—an old service vent, a break in the wall paneling, anything. The room was bigger than she remembered, the corners darker. Shadows clung to the file racks like cobwebs.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
Not fast. Not loud. Just... deliberate. Measured.
Someone was outside.
She backed away from the door, hiding behind a tall cabinet. The lock clicked.
A sliver of light split the darkness.
A figure stepped in—masked, dressed in white coveralls. Silent.
They scanned the room with a flashlight.
Ira held her breath.
The beam swept past her cabinet, paused for a second—but didn't return. The figure moved further inside, toward the back corner.
She took her chance.
Darting from her hiding spot, Ira slipped through the half-open door, barely suppressing the scream rising in her throat. Her bare feet slapped against the cold tile as she ran down the hallway. No security. No CCTV hum. The hospital's lower floors were... deserted.
She reached the stairwell and bolted up two flights, only stopping when she saw familiar signage: Radiology – Floor 2.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
She ducked into the women's locker room and locked the door behind her. The silence was almost louder now—no patient buzz, no intercoms, no movement.
Just her.
Ira looked at herself in the mirror. Blood matted her hair. Her scrubs were torn at the sleeve. She didn't look like a doctor anymore—she looked like prey.
Her hands shook as she grabbed a towel and wiped her face, trying to focus.
Someone had knocked her out.
Someone had taken the evidence.
And someone had let her live.
But why?
Was it a warning?
Or... were they watching what she would do next?
It wasn't until morning that she slipped back into the general staff areas, blending in with the early arrivals. No one batted an eye. No one asked where she'd been.
Like nothing had happened.
She needed to find help—but not just anyone. Not now.
Only one name came to mind.
Even if it made her stomach churn.
She spotted her across the cafeteria—perfect posture, crisp eyeliner, and a smirk that looked permanently stitched onto her face.
Dr. Ishita Chauhan.
Ira walked straight to her table, voice low. "Can we talk?"
Ishita raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think you were the type to beg for coffee dates."
"Not a joke."
Something in Ira's tone must've struck her. Ishita stood immediately, her tray forgotten.
They walked in silence until they reached the back corridor near the maternity wing—quiet, private.
Ira didn't waste time.
"Someone knocked me out last night."
Ishita blinked.
"I was in the archives. Found files—on experimental trials. Aanya's name was on them. Some of them mentioned underage patients, consent waivers. Then I found a photo. Her and someone else. It was marked. Violently."
"You're sure?"
Ira looked at her. "I'm not hallucinating. They cleaned everything up. Took my phone. My ID. Locked me in."
Ishita's expression darkened. "And let you live."
"Exactly."
Ishita folded her arms, thinking. "I heard rumors. Nothing concrete. But if they're running illegal trials... and if Aanya tried to stop it..."
Ira nodded. "She disappeared the day after her last scheduled surgery. No transfer papers. No notice."
Ishita leaned in. "Okay. You want to find out what happened?"
"I need to."
Ishita looked her over once, then gave a tight nod. "Then we're doing this together."
For the first time in years, Ira didn't feel alone.
But as they turned to walk back into the light of the hospital, Ira's stomach twisted.
She still didn't know who had been in that room with her.
And something told her... that wasn't the last time she'd be in the dark.