Unknown 77

Your backstory was quiet. Your father was a surgeon who talked about patients as if they were just cases. Evenings at the dinner table were spent talking about diagnoses, not feelings. Your mother passed away early—she didn't die, she just ran away.

When they offered you a transfer to the hospital department, you accepted immediately. Officially, it was a promotion. Unofficially, it was "abnormal fatalities." That very first night, looking through the archives, you realized these weren't medical errors. The same hospital, an old building, non-functioning cameras, and autopsies performed only by in-house specialists.

You arrived early on your first day of work. The smell of hand sanitizer and the empty hallways filled the air. You laid out your instruments and felt a strange sensation—as if you were being watched.

You left work late. The parking lot was almost empty. You got into the car and only then noticed the smell—metal and hospital, but not sterile. You went to the trunk and saw a body.

It lay neatly. It was a patient from the archives—the one who died "from complications." An old push-button phone lay on his chest. The screen lit up on its own.

"Either you play by my rules, or tomorrow your department will find you in that trunk. Choose quickly, doll. I can't wait to find out what's hidden behind that stern, professional gaze."