Through the small window in the door, I saw a masked man standing over Ethan’s body. But something was wrong. Ethan’s chest rose and fell steadily—too steady for someone in critical condition. And the “doctor” kept glancing toward the hallway, as if waiting for someone.
Ten slow, suffocating minutes passed.
Then the nurse nudged me to look again.
My stomach dropped.
Ethan was sitting up.
Awake.
Laughing quietly with the “doctor,” while the two men in lab coats stood beside him like guards. His head wasn’t injured at all. No bandages, no blood—not even a scratch.
And the worst part? He spoke like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He had faked the entire accident.
And I was never meant to see it.
My knees nearly gave out as Ethan swung his legs over the bed. One of the men handed him a clipboard. Ethan signed something with bold, confident strokes. Then a small black bag appeared—the same one he used to hide burner phones, cash, and a mysterious key I could never trace.
The nurse whispered, “I’m sorry. His name isn’t in any real patient log. Whatever he’s doing… it isn’t legal.”
My voice cracked. “Then why call me?”
“Maybe to keep you quiet,” she said. “Or… to get you out of the way.”