Adrian sat in the dark, the hum of the computer suddenly gone, replaced by the deafening silence that filled his small office. His pulse thudded in his ears as the glowing letters of the message—Stop looking—burned into his memory. His thoughts raced, and his body remained frozen, as though a single movement could provoke the unseen force that had just made itself known.
He pushed back from his desk, his chair scraping across the floor, the sound piercing through the eerie stillness. His mind screamed at him to leave, but his legs refused to move. For the first time in years, Adrian felt true fear—a cold, primal terror that gripped his entire being.
Slowly, he stood and glanced around the room, half-expecting to find someone watching him from the shadows. His eyes scanned the corners of the office, but nothing stirred. The unease remained, however, thick and suffocating. The message had been clear: whatever was happening, whatever he had stumbled into, there were forces at play that didn't want him digging any further.
But how had they done it? How had they infiltrated his computer, his space, with such precision? His gut told him this wasn't just some hacker or prankster. This was deliberate. Personal.
Adrian grabbed his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he scrolled through his contacts. He had to call Marcus again—had to tell him what just happened. But as he brought the phone to his ear, waiting for the dial tone, it went silent.
No signal.
A curse escaped his lips, and he checked the screen, only to find that his phone, like the computer, had gone dark. Dead. The battery indicator showed it was fully charged, but nothing responded. No calls, no texts. No escape.
A loud thud echoed from the hallway outside his office.
Adrian's heart skipped a beat as he turned toward the door, his breath catching in his throat. He waited, listening intently for any further sounds, but none came. His logical mind tried to reason with the situation—maybe it was just someone in the hospital, a patient or staff member. After all, the hospital never truly slept, with its constant flow of movement and activity.
But then, another thud. This time louder. Closer.
Adrian's hands clenched into fists, his body instinctively tensing for action. He was no stranger to tense situations—years as a surgeon had taught him how to remain calm under pressure. But this was different. This was unknown. And the unknown terrified him.
Summoning every ounce of courage he had left, Adrian moved toward the door, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. His breath came in shallow bursts as he reached for the handle, hesitating before finally turning it and pulling the door open.
The hallway beyond was dimly lit, the familiar sterile scent of the hospital mingling with something else—something metallic, like the faint odor of blood. He stepped into the corridor, his footsteps echoing unnervingly as he glanced left and right.
Nothing.
The thuds had stopped. The hallway was empty, lined with closed doors, each one hiding its own story. For a brief moment, Adrian wondered if he had imagined the sounds, if the stress of the last few days had finally caught up with him. But the tension in the air told him otherwise.
He walked further down the hall, past the rows of doors and into the main wing of the hospital. It was late—most of the staff were either on break or tending to the night shift, leaving the building eerily quiet. Adrian made his way toward the nurses' station, hoping to find someone, anyone, who could reassure him that everything was normal.
As he approached, a figure caught his eye.
Standing at the far end of the hallway was a man in a hospital gown. His back was to Adrian, but something about his posture, the way he stood so still, so unnaturally rigid, made Adrian stop in his tracks.
The man didn't move, didn't turn, but the atmosphere around him felt oppressive, as if the very air was thicker where he stood. Adrian's stomach twisted as he took a cautious step forward, his instincts screaming at him to turn back, to leave the hospital entirely. But something in the back of his mind pushed him onward—a sense of obligation, a need to understand what was happening.
"Sir," Adrian called out, his voice barely above a whisper, though the hallway carried it like a shout. "Are you alright?"
The man didn't respond, didn't even flinch. He remained motionless, facing the wall.
Adrian's hands tightened into fists once more. His steps were cautious, deliberate, as he approached the figure. There was no explanation for this—patients weren't supposed to be wandering the halls at this hour, especially not in such a state. He should've called for help, alerted security, but a deeper instinct told him that this wasn't just a patient.
The closer he got, the more details he could make out. The man's gown was stained, dark patches of dried blood clinging to the fabric. His bare feet were smeared with filth, leaving faint, bloody footprints in his wake. Adrian swallowed hard, his mind racing with possibilities. Who was this man? And why did his presence feel so… wrong?
When he was only a few steps away, Adrian stopped. The urge to turn and run nearly overwhelmed him, but he held his ground. The man's skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim light, and his hair was matted against his skull. There was a smell too—faint but unmistakable. Decay.
"Sir," Adrian said again, louder this time. "Do you need help?"
Finally, the man moved.
Slowly, excruciatingly slow, he turned his head to the side, revealing just enough of his face for Adrian to see. His skin was stretched tight over sharp, gaunt cheekbones, and his eyes—sunken, lifeless—locked onto Adrian with a hollow, vacant stare.
Adrian's breath caught in his throat. The man's lips moved, barely parting, but no sound came out. Instead, his body swayed unnaturally, as though he were a puppet with its strings cut, and then he began to step toward Adrian.
Panic surged through Adrian's body. He stumbled back, nearly losing his balance as the man advanced, his movements disjointed, almost mechanical. The bloody footprints left behind him seemed to pulse in the dim light, growing darker with each step.
Adrian's mind screamed at him to run, but his legs were rooted to the ground, his body frozen in a mix of terror and disbelief. The man's face twisted into something grotesque—a mockery of human expression, his lips pulling into a sick, broken smile.
And then, as quickly as it had started, the man stopped.
He stood there, only a few feet away from Adrian, his body slouched and lifeless once more. His lips moved again, but this time, a faint whisper escaped—a single word that sent a cold chill down Adrian's spine.
"Marked."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Before Adrian could react, the man collapsed, his body crumpling to the floor in a heap. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping from unseen wounds, and for a moment, all Adrian could do was stare in horrified silence.
But then, as the realization of what had just happened set in, Adrian finally found his voice. He turned and bolted down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest as the word echoed in his mind, relentless and unforgiving.
Marked.
Whatever had claimed the girl, whatever had marked her, had found him too.