The hospital corridors buzzed with the usual chaos—nurses hurrying with charts, the steady rhythm of monitors, the occasional echo of a child's laughter breaking through the sterile silence. Elena walked with brisk confidence, her stethoscope hanging loose around her neck, a clipboard in one hand and a phone in the other, answering questions as quickly as they came.
"Dr. Marlowe, the patient in Room 312 is prepped for surgery."
"Tell anesthesia I'll be there in ten. Start the IV fluids, and page me if her vitals dip again," Elena replied without missing a step. Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she moved on to the next ward, checking patients, scribbling notes, and giving quiet encouragements to worried families.
Her day stretched endlessly—surgery in the morning, rounds at noon, consultations in the afternoon. Yet, no matter how heavy the load, she always made time for one particular stop.
Elena pushed open the door to a smaller, sunlit room, where Lydia lay propped up against pillows, a book in her lap. The faint beeping of the heart monitor underscored the fragility of the girl sitting there.
"You look exhausted," Lydia teased, her smile soft but tired. "How many hearts did you save today?"
"Three," Elena said, leaning down to kiss her sister's forehead. "And one lecture about listening to doctors. Guess who it was for?"
Lydia rolled her eyes. "I'm fine, El. You don't have to hover every second."
Elena smoothed her sister's hair, hiding the ache in her chest. You're not fine. You're never really fine.
But she only said, "I'll hover as much as I want. It's my job, remember?"
---
By the time evening rolled in, Elena finally sank into a chair in the staff lounge with a sandwich she barely tasted. Her colleagues filled the room with chatter and laughter, their energy a stark contrast to her own drained body.
"You know, Elena," Dr. Patel said, balancing a coffee cup in one hand, "you're twenty-eight, brilliant, and gorgeous, but all you ever romance is your work."
"That's true," another chimed in with a grin. "You're going to marry your stethoscope one day."
Elena smirked, taking a sip of her water. "At least my stethoscope doesn't argue back."
The group burst into laughter, but the teasing didn't stop. "Seriously, don't you ever think about slowing down? Maybe going on a date?"
"Not really on my priority list," Elena said smoothly, though a small, quiet part of her heart stung at the truth of it. Love felt like a luxury she couldn't afford.
---
As she chewed on the last bite of her sandwich, her eyes drifted to the muted television mounted on the wall. A news anchor's polished voice narrated over bright images of a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
"…and today, Blackwell Enterprises announced the opening of its newest branch, bringing hundreds of jobs to the community. The company's CEO, Adrian Blackwell, continues to set records as one of the youngest and most successful entrepreneurs in the nation."
Elena froze mid-breath. The camera zoomed in on him—tall, confident, his smile disarming, his suit flawless. Her eyes stayed glued on him, not listening to anything that was being said.
"Elena?" One of her colleagues nudged her gently. "You okay?"
She blinked, snapping back into the present. On the screen, Adrian was shaking hands with officials, his face the picture of charm and success.
"Wow," one nurse sighed. "He's… ridiculously handsome."
"And filthy rich," another added. "Imagine being twenty-eight and running a company like that."
Elena swallowed, forcing a smile. "Yes… he's done well for himself."
-------
When Elena's shift finally ended, the exhaustion settled in her bones like lead. Still, instead of heading straight home, her feet carried her back to the familiar small room where Lydia lay. The faint glow of the bedside lamp cast a soft circle of light, where their mother, Sofia, sat in a chair with her nursing scrubs still on.
"You're still here, Mom?" Elena said, setting her bag down. "You've just finished your own shift. You should rest."
Sofia gave her a tired but warm smile. "And leave Lydia alone? Not a chance. Besides," she reached over to tuck a blanket more snugly around Lydia, "I want to support you however I can. You're doing so much for everyone, Elena, but you're still my daughter. I can't just sit back."
Elena's chest tightened. She wanted to argue, to insist that the money she made was more than enough to take care of them, that Sofia didn't have to work herself weary. But she knew that stubborn streak well—it was the same one Elena had inherited. So instead she sighed, perching on the edge of the bed.
"You'll wear yourself out," Elena said softly.
"Maybe," Sofia replied with a shrug. "But it's worth it." Then her expression shifted, eyes crinkling as she asked, "Did you see Adrian on the news today?"
Elena stiffened at the name but forced a casual tone. "Yes. I… saw him."
Sofia chuckled, a nostalgic gleam in her gaze. "Can you believe it? He was just a boy running through the garden, and now he's… well, this successful young man. Time flies faster than we know."
Elena smiled faintly, though the memory pressed like a weight in her chest.
Her mother touched her hand gently. "Go home and rest, Elena. You've done enough for today."
---
The night air was cool as Elena finally slid into her car. For a moment she sat there in silence, her fingers hesitating before reaching into her bag. She pulled out her phone, swiping through her photo gallery until old pictures surfaced—grainy shots from high school days, smiles caught in frozen time.
There they were: her and Adrian. Her first love. Her only love.
His arm draped over her shoulder, his grin wide and unguarded. Hers just as bright, filled with the reckless hope of youth.
But he had left.
Gone abroad after his parents' deaths, vanishing from her life without goodbye. She hadn't been able to follow—not with her father's sudden death from the same ailment that now plagued Lydia, not with the weight of her family pressing down on her shoulders.
Almost ten years had passed. Ten long years where she had buried that part of her heart so deep it felt like it no longer existed. There was no space for romance anymore. Not with her career. Not with Lydia's condition. Not with the memories that still stung like fresh wounds.
With a quiet sigh, she locked her phone and slipped it back into her bag.
---
Driving through the quiet streets, her eyes caught something unusual. Nestled between two towering buildings was a small, dimly lit bookstore. Its sign creaked faintly in the night breeze, the golden letters almost faded with age. She slowed, curiosity tugging at her.
It looked… peculiar. Out of place, like it belonged to another time.
On impulse, Elena pulled over and stepped inside.
The bell above the door jingled softly, announcing her presence. The air smelled faintly of dust and ink, the kind of scent that clung to forgotten corners. Shelves stretched high, filled with books that seemed older than she could imagine.
Behind the counter sat an old man with sharp eyes, his back slightly hunched but his presence oddly commanding. He looked up at her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Evening, miss," he said, his voice low and rasping.
Elena nodded politely before wandering between the shelves. Her fingers trailed along cracked spines until her eyes fell on one particular book.
The Man from the Pages.
Its cover was simple, yet strangely compelling. She couldn't look away, as though something unseen tethered her to it. A psycho-thriller. Her favorite genre.
Without a second thought, she brought it to the counter.
The old man slid the book into a paper bag with deliberate slowness. His gaze lingered on her face as he murmured, "Not every story is meant to be read, you know."
A chill ran down her spine, though she gave a small laugh to brush it off. "I think I'll take my chances."
He only smiled, a thin, knowing curve of his lips.
Elena paid quickly, eager to leave, the strange weight of his words following her out into the night.
At home, Elena set the paper bag down on her desk and headed to the shower. The hot water washed away the fatigue clinging to her body, though it couldn't quite soothe the heaviness in her chest. By the time she slipped into fresh clothes and settled onto her bed, the city outside had gone quiet, the soft hum of night filling the silence.
She reached for the book.
The cover felt oddly rough beneath her fingertips, the letters almost etched instead of printed. She opened it, half expecting faded ink and archaic prose. Instead, bold, sharp words leapt out at her.
The story began with a man only known as M.
M was not an ordinary killer. He was deliberate, meticulous, and merciless—but never without reason. He did not harm innocents. He only targeted the corrupt, those who twisted justice for their own gain. Politicians who bought their way out of scandal. Businessmen who bled the poor dry. Criminals who walked free while victims were silenced.
And for each of them, M devised punishments that fit their sins.
A judge who accepted bribes was buried alive under the weight of his own law books.
A corrupt CEO was locked in a freezing chamber, his body slowly succumbing to frost as the machines he once denied his workers hummed coldly around him.
A rapist was left bound and helpless in the very same dark, filthy basement where he had once trapped his victim, forced to endure the terror he had inflicted until the end came for him.
A politician who trafficked power and influence found his own family turned against him in a staged betrayal, his final moments filled with paranoia and horror.
Page after page, the killings grew darker, more grotesque, described in painstaking detail. Elena's stomach tightened as she read, the images too vivid, too real. She told herself it was just fiction, but a quiet unease gnawed at her.
By the time she reached the final chapters, her pulse was quick. The book revealed the truth—M's final victims were the ones who had destroyed his family, those who had caused their deaths through greed and cruelty. Their punishments were the most chilling of all, the prose dripping with venom and grief.
When Elena finally closed the book, her hands trembled. She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing away the gruesome imagery still burning there.
It's just a story, she reminded herself. Just ink and paper. Nothing more.
With a shiver, she set the book aside and crawled into bed. Exhaustion dragged her into a restless sleep filled with shadows and whispers.
---
The next morning, sunlight filtered through her curtains. Elena rubbed her eyes, sat up slowly, and glanced at the nightstand.
Her breath caught.
The book was gone.