The hospital had quieted again.
The frenzy from earlier was now replaced by a subdued murmur — whispers at the edge of hearing, footsteps muffled by distance, radios clicking softly with scattered updates.
But Mansh didn't return home.
Something inside him wouldn't let him leave. Not yet.
He wandered — slowly, deliberately — through the back corridors of the hospital. His steps made no sound, the tiles beneath him strangely muted, as though he were walking on something softer than floor.
And that was when he saw it.
A hallway.
Long. Dim. Too dim.
He didn't remember seeing it before. And that disturbed him.
Mansh had been through this wing multiple times earlier — running, searching, retracing his steps. But this hallway hadn't been here.
He was sure of it.
He stood at its threshold now, heart thudding against his ribs. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, flickering with a sickly orange glow instead of the harsh white of the hospital.
The walls here weren't white either — they were gray. A grim, bruised shade of gray that looked like concrete soaked in something old. Something dried. Something almost… organic.
It didn't look like a hospital at all.
And yet—
It was part of the hospital. Seamlessly attached. No broken seams in the floor. No cracks where it should've ended.
Just a corridor that shouldn't exist.
Mansh stepped forward.
One foot, then the other.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the air itself were thickening — resisting him. The fluorescent hum grew louder, distorting into something uneven, almost growling.
The corridor stretched unnaturally long.
Too long.
His eyes darted to the left, then the right. The walls were lined with patient rooms — or what looked like patient rooms — but none of them had windows. Only rusted metal doors with slits at eye level. No lights inside. No names. No numbers.
Just cold, rectangular openings.
Some of them were slightly ajar.
Mansh didn't want to look through.
But he did.
He leaned toward one of the open slits, heart clawing its way up his throat.
Inside, shadows.
Movement?
He blinked.
Gone.
His breathing quickened.
Then—
At the very end of the hallway—
A figure.
Still.
Facing away.
Silhouetted in the dim light.
Slumped shoulders. Tousled hair. Slim build. The hospital gown fluttering faintly from some invisible breeze.
'Ankhush.'
The breath caught in his lungs like ice.
He didn't think — he just started walking.
"Ankhush…" his voice barely broke the air, but the name cracked with emotion. "Is that you?"
No reply.
He walked faster.
The corridor stretched wider. Darker.
Something felt off with the way the shadows moved here. Like they followed a rhythm disconnected from the lights. The edges of the floor warped slightly underfoot — not enough to trip him, but enough to feel like the floor breathed.
He reached out.
"Hey…"
The figure twitched.
Mansh froze.
It turned — slowly — neck twisting first, then the shoulders, then the whole body, like its bones remembered how to move one second too late.
The face came into view.
Mansh's heart stilled.
It looked like Ankhush.
But—
The eyes—
Were wrong.
Not just empty.
Missing.
And the mouth—
It opened far too wide.
A gaping, black void.
No teeth.
No tongue.
Just endless darkness.
Then—
The figure screamed.
A sound that didn't come from a throat — but from every wall around him. From the floor. From the ceiling. A deep, animalistic shriek that tore through reality like claws across metal.
Mansh stumbled back.
His hands flew to his ears, eyes squeezing shut, legs giving out beneath him.
He fell hard.
The floor was ice.
The sound kept coming.
The figure began to run.
Straight at him.
Mansh couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't—
He gasped.
Sat up.
Sweat soaked his shirt. His chest heaved.
Light blinded him — real light this time. White, clinical. Familiar.
He blinked rapidly, disoriented.
He was… on a bench.
In the waiting room.
The same hospital. The real hospital.
Someone across from him glanced up — an elderly woman with kind eyes — then looked away politely.
'A dream.'
'It had to be.'
Mansh pressed his hands to his face.
His skin was freezing.
His pulse still thundered.
He turned his head, eyes scanning the hallway beyond the glass windows.
Everything looked normal now.
Quiet. Busy. Alive.
He let out a shaky laugh — the kind that came from relief and confusion at once.
Just a nightmare.
Of course it was.
His phone vibrated again.
He jumped.
Fumbling, he grabbed it from his pocket.
New Message.
No contact name.
Just a single image.
He opened it.
It was dark. Blurry.
But he recognized the corridor.
That corridor.
And at the very end…
A figure.
Back turned.
Still.
Waiting.
***
A/N: what the hell is going on?
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