Till

You were a surgeon. The hospital had a simple bracelet system: white ones were for regular patients, yellow ones were for the seriously ill, green ones were for discharge, and red ones… red ones were for those who wouldn't be returning home.

That night, the surgery lasted almost seven hours. You fought for every inch of her life, but everything went wrong. The young woman did not survive the operation. As she was wheeled away, a nurse attached a red bracelet to her wrist. You remembered it all too well—the scarlet stripe curling around her pale skin.

You collapsed into the elevator, exhausted, to descend to the underground parking garage. Your head was pounding, your hands were shaking. A man was already standing inside—young, calm, in a hospital gown.

“What floor?” he asked.

— The first underground.

The doors closed, and the elevator slowly crept downward. Somewhere between the second and first floors, the cabin suddenly stopped, and with a soft clang, the doors slid open.

She stood on the threshold.

That same patient.

Pale. Motionless. Empty eyes stared right through you. A red bracelet glowed on her wrist.

You pressed yourself against the wall. With a trembling hand, you fumbled for the closing button. The doors closed right in front of her face—the last thing you saw: the bracelet and the lifeless hand that never clasped yours in farewell.

"What are you doing?!" the man said indignantly. "That was rude."

“You don’t understand…” you exhaled, feeling panic tightening your throat. “I just operated on her. She died on the table. Did you see the red bracelet?”

The man didn't answer. For a few seconds, silence filled the elevator, broken only by the hum of the ventilation system.

And then he slowly raised his hand. And smiled.

"Ah... you mean like this?" His voice sounded calm, almost polite. "Doctor... are you sure she was the only one who died today?"

On his wrist was the same scarlet bracelet, with his name, "Till Stage," on it. The same bracelet as the girl had on.