The blood on Elijah's gloves wasn't metaphorical.
It was real.
Warm.
Sticky.
His hands shook as he stared at them under the flickering overhead lights. The scalpel clattered to the floor with a metallic ring, skidding under one of the gurneys. His chest heaved.
He didn't remember using the scalpel.
But someone had.
And now it was in his grip.
Valerie was still coming.
Her voice repeated through the static-laced intercom:
> "Elijah? I'm heading down now."
He didn't answer.
Couldn't.
The morgue had gone silent again.
Not empty.
Just waiting.
---
Elijah rushed to the wash basin, frantically scrubbing the blood off his hands with industrial soap. The water ran pink, then red, then darker. It didn't stop. The tap sputtered but kept flowing like something beneath was bleeding.
His reflection in the steel mirror wasn't his.
Pale.
Eyes sunken.
A toe tag dangled from his left foot in the reflection.
Name: Elijah Vane.
Cause of Death: Silence.
He stumbled back.
His foot caught something.
The body drawer behind him had slid open—again.
Drawer 1.
His own.
A white sheet covered the corpse.
But Elijah knew what was underneath.
He didn't lift it.
Didn't have to.
> The sheet breathed.
Once.
Then again.
> "Tell her the truth," it whispered.
> "Or she'll take your place."
---
The lights down the hallway turned off one by one as Valerie approached.
Her footsteps echoed.
But the echo was wrong.
Too slow.
Like a second pair was following her.
Elijah sprinted out the door just as Valerie stepped into the hall.
She startled.
"Elijah—what the hell happened to you?"
He looked wild.
Hair damp with sweat.
Eyes glassy.
Hands trembling.
"You need to go," he said.
"What?"
"Now. Get out. Don't come back. Don't—don't open any drawers."
"Elijah, what are you talking ab—"
A drawer in the morgue slammed open behind them.
Both froze.
Then Valerie saw it.
Over Elijah's shoulder.
Her own name on the digital body inventory.
Slot 14.
Status: OCCUPIED.
> "Who… who did that?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Because he saw the screen change.
Cause of Death: Guilt.
Time of Death: 3:17 a.m.
Which was three minutes from now.
---
Elijah grabbed her arm and pulled her down the hall. She resisted at first, then ran with him as the corridor lights exploded one by one.
The morgue's PA system crackled to life.
But it wasn't hospital staff.
It was the dead.
> "She helped cover it up, Elijah."
> "She changed the logs."
> "She was there when the girl died."
Valerie froze.
"What the hell are they talking about?"
He turned to her.
Face pale.
> "You remember the girl in Room 9."
Her eyes widened.
Tears formed instantly.
"You told me it was just training."
Elijah nodded slowly.
"But it wasn't."
He opened his notebook.
The Devil's ledger.
Pages flipped on their own.
Revealing a sketch.
Of Valerie.
Screaming.
Dead.
Beside her name, a blank line remained.
Still time to change it.
Still time to rewrite the cause.
But only if the confession came.
---
Valerie fell to her knees.
Her voice cracked.
"I falsified the report. The girl didn't die from a seizure. It was the injection. I panicked. You told me not to say anything. I thought we'd both go down."
The whispers around them paused.
Then one voice:
> "And now?"
Valerie sobbed.
"I was wrong. I'm sorry. I was scared."
The page in Elijah's book shimmered.
The cause of death changed.
Time of Death: Redacted.
Status: Resurrected by confession.
The drawer that bore her name slid shut.
The morgue exhaled.
---
But Elijah wasn't safe.
Not yet.
He returned to the cold room alone.
And there, on the autopsy table, was his own body.
Tag still on the toe.
But now… the name was crossed out.
Replaced.
> "Confessor."
Beside the body was the final chapter of the book.
A letter.
From someone else.
FROM THE FIRST BODY TO EVER WHISPER.
> "They thought death was the end."
> "But silence has a price."
> "You, Elijah Vane, are now the carrier."
> "The Devil's Bedtime must go on."
> "You are the story now."
The book sealed.
And the morgue lights went dark.
---
Outside, Valerie saw Elijah exit the hospital with a small bag and the book under his arm.
He didn't speak.
He just whispered:
> "They still have more to say."
And walked into the night.
Where the dead waited.
Where more stories would begin.
Where silence would never again be safe.