104 "Beyond the Glass and Blood: Where Corporate Greed Feeds a Deadly Conspiracy, a Risen Ghost Shatters a Fake Dynasty, and the Ultimate Vengeance Begins at Dawn"

“Mr. Moretti!” Grace whispered in a panic, her eyes darting frantically around the room. “Hide—well, you can’t hide. What do we do?”

“Close your eyes. Look like you’re doing your job,” I commanded, my voice dropping back into the flat, monotone cadence of a comatose patient.

I let my head loll back against the pillows, my eyelids fluttering half-closed as my muscles went limp. It was an act I had practiced for five days, a terrifying impersonation of a corpse waiting for the final curtain.

The knock came again—louder, sharper this time.

Then the brass handle turned.

Grace reacted with instinct born of sheer terror. She snatched a damp cloth from her bucket, dropped to her knees beside the rolling tray, and began aggressively scrubbing the linoleum baseboard as if her life depended on a speck of dust.

The door swung open with a slow, ominous creak.

“Grace?”

It was Nurse Henderson. Her voice, usually professional and soothing, sounded tight and impatient.

I kept my breathing shallow, mimicking the slow, artificial rise and fall of a ventilator-assisted patient, though my lungs burned for oxygen.

“Oh!” Grace stammered, scrambling slightly as she looked up from the floor, her face perfectly flushed with genuine fright. “Ms. Henderson! I... I was just finishing up the dusting. Mr. Moretti’s family said the room had to be spotless before the evening consultation.”

Henderson stepped fully into the suite, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly against the floor. I felt her presence near the bed, casting a long, cold shadow across my face. She didn't look at Grace; her eyes were fixed on the monitor screen, reading the digital spikes of my pulse.

“You take an awfully long time to clean a side table,” Henderson said coldly. “Visiting hours ended twenty minutes ago. Family policy dictates no staff in here past eight o’clock unless accompanied by a physician.”

“I’m sorry, I’m leaving right now,” Grace muttered, grabbing her bucket and standing up quickly, keeping her head down.

“Wait,” Henderson said.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Did you touch the IV line?” Henderson asked, her tone shifting into something dangerously casual. “The primary drip line looks slightly displaced from the bracket.”

Grace froze. I felt every muscle in her body lock up beside the bed.

“No, ma’am,” Grace said, her voice admirably steady despite the circumstances. “I didn't touch anything. I only changed the flowers.”

Henderson lingered for another agonizing moment. I could smell the sharp tang of her antiseptic hand sanitizer, hovering just inches from my pillow. Then, with a soft click of her pen, she stepped back toward the door.

“Finish up and get out, Grace. Mr. Moretti has a very busy day of medical evaluations tomorrow. We wouldn't want any... unexpected interruptions.”

The door clicked shut.

For thirty seconds, neither Grace nor I moved. Then, I let out a long, shuddering exhale and opened my eyes.

Grace was shaking so violently she had to set her cleaning bucket on the floor to keep from dropping it. “She knows,” Grace whispered, her teeth lightly chattering. “She knows I was in here too long.”