The sterile air of the hospital carried an unnatural stillness that night. The rhythmic beeping of heart monitors and the occasional shuffle of nurses' shoes echoed faintly down the dimly lit corridors. Room 312, where the injured man—identified as Mark Calloway—was recovering, was guarded by an officer stationed outside the door. Detective Caleb Whitaker had ensured that security was tight after the alley incident.

But security wasn’t foolproof.

Inside the room, Mark lay pale and fragile under the dim glow of a bedside lamp. He stirred unasily in his sleep, his breathing labored. His injuries were severe but not fatal, and the doctors had been optimistic about his recovery. The interview scheduled for the next morning was expected to shed light on the shadowy figure who had attacked him and chased Eileen.

But Mark wouldn’t live to tell his story.

A shadow creep into the room—silent, deliberate. The figure moved with unsettling precision, by passing the guard without a trace. The monitor beside Mark began to beep erratically, then flatlined. By the time the night nurse responded to the alarm, the assailant was gone, and Mark was lifeless. Miles Harper across the hospital wing, an 18-year-old boy sat cross-legged on a bench near the vending machines. Miles Harper was a regular visitor at the hospital, though not by choice. Diagnosed with autism, he preferred structured environments, and the hospital was one of the few places he felt safe. His mother worked the night shift as a nurse, and Miles often accompanied her, finding solace in the routine of observing people and their predictable behaviors.

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Miles saw the world differently. Details that others often overlooked consumed his focus—patterns in the tiles on the hospital floor, the flickering sequence of fluorescent lights, the faint hum of machinery. He was gifted with an extraordinary memory, able to recall scenes and sounds with photographic precision.

Tonight, he’d been quietly munching on a granola bar, his headphones on, while watching the world around him.

The Next Morning, the hospital was in chaos. News of Mark Calloway’s death had spread quickly, and Detective Whitaker was back on the scene, his face a mask of grim determination.

“This was no accident,” Caleb told Eileen as they stood outside the hospital. “This killer is covering their tracks.”

Eileen, holding her notepad tightly, felt a shifter running down her spine. “But how did they get past the officer at the door?”

“Still figuring that out,” Caleb said. “But someone must’ve seen something.”