But the timing never varied. And every night, after he left, the screams returned.

She mentioned it to a senior nurse, who told her to mind her duties. A doctor shrugged: elderly patients were emotional at night. A coworker leaned in, warning quietly: “Don’t get involved. Families are complicated.”

But the screams continued.

One night, the orderly passed Room 7 and froze. Raised voices. Whispered anger. A choked, desperate sound—cut off too quickly.

She went home shaken. She didn’t sleep. Fear turned into resolve. If nobody else would act, she would.

The next evening, she volunteered to clean Room 7 early. The patient was resting, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Heart hammering, the orderly slid down to the floor, crawling quietly beneath the bed. Dust coated her sleeves. The metal frame creaked softly overhead. She lay flat, barely breathing, listening to her pulse.

Footsteps approached. The door opened.

She recognized the man immediately by his shoes. Polished leather. Expensive soles.

At first, his voice was gentle, almost kind. He asked how the patient was feeling. Spoke of “what made sense at her age,” of property, of signatures that would “make everything easier.” The woman refused quietly, eyes tight.

Then his tone shifted. Calm. Controlled. Terrifying. Threats about medication. Hints that doctors could be persuaded to say she was worsening. Warnings that resistance would make things harder for her.

And then she saw it—the syringe. Unmarked. Pulled from his coat with ease, practiced, deliberate.

The patient screamed. Louder than ever. Desperate. Then, mid-cry, her hand went limp against the sheets.