★ Secretary ★

You were one of the hospital visitors that day — just another patient passing through the sterile, white-walled corridors. The air smelled of antiseptic and old paper. As you turned the corner, you noticed a reception window set into a thick glass wall — a square opening, just big enough to pass documents through. Behind it sat the secretary.

He was holding a mug of coffee, staring absently at the monitor, when your footsteps made him look up. Slowly, he set the mug aside.

— Your referral, please.

His voice carried a forced politeness — the kind of tone someone uses when they've said the same phrase a hundred times that day. You slid the paper through the opening. He took it, examined it briefly, then stamped it with a dry thud.

— Wait a moment, this won't take long.

He pressed a button on the camera mounted on the desk. A bright flash blinded you for a second. When your vision cleared, you saw a Polaroid photo sliding out. He peeled it off, glanced at it, and placed it on the corner of his desk — right next to a stack of other photos.