Elena burst through the door of her third-floor apartment, the stale air hitting her like a slap. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the deadbolt, double-checking it twice, then thrice. The rain lashed against the windowpanes, blurring the neon glow of the city outside into a smeared watercolor of red and blue. She had seen it. God, she had seen it all.

The hospital corridors had been empty at 2 a.m., the fluorescent lights buzzing like angry hornets. Dr. Marcus Harris, her mentor, the man she’d trusted for five years, had stood over Mr. Wilkins’ bed. The old man, terminal cancer patient, had been moaning softly. Harris’s face was a mask of calm as he drew the syringe, the clear liquid glinting under the lights. ‘It’s for the best,’ he’d whispered, but Elena knew better. That wasn’t morphine. It was too much, too deliberate. The man’s body jerked once, then stilled. Harris met her eyes in the doorway, his expression hardening. ‘You saw nothing.’

She backed away then, heart slamming, fleeing down the stairwell to her car. Now, safe—or so she thought—in her cramped one-bedroom, she leaned against the door, sliding to the floor. The apartment felt smaller than ever, walls pressing in, the single window mocking her with its fire escape that led to a twenty-foot drop onto concrete. Breathe, Elena. Just breathe.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. Unknown number. She stared at it, paralyzed. Don’t answer. But what if it’s him? Warning her? No, it would be a threat. She snatched it up. ‘Hello?’

Static, then a low chuckle. ‘Nurse Petrov. You shouldn’t have looked.’ Click.

Her blood turned to ice. Harris. He had her number. Of course he did. She dialed 911, but the line crackled, disconnected. Dead battery? No, it was full this morning. She plugged it in, paced the five steps to the living room. The apartment was a cage: peeling wallpaper, sagging couch, kitchenette with its flickering bulb. Every shadow seemed to shift.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She froze. The peephole. Heart in throat, she pressed her eye to it. Empty hallway, dim emergency light flickering. No one. Trick of the mind. But the knock came again, insistent. ‘Elena? Open up.’ A woman’s voice. Neighbor, Mrs. Grady from 3B?

‘Mrs. Grady? Is that you?’

‘Elena, honey, I heard you slam the door. Everything okay?’ The voice was muffled, concerned.

Relief flooded her. She unchained the door, cracked it. Empty. No one. She slammed it shut, chained it. ‘Shit. Shit shit.’ Paranoia. That’s what Harris wanted. To make her doubt herself.

The rain intensified, thunder rumbling like distant artillery. She grabbed a knife from the drawer, the blade cold comfort. Sat on the couch, back to the wall, eyes on the door. Minutes stretched to hours. 3 a.m. Her mind replayed the scene: Harris’s steady hand, Wilkins’ gasp. Why? Cover-up? Wilkins had complained about wrong meds earlier that shift. Elena had administered them. Routine. But Harris…

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate in the hall. Stopping at her door. She gripped the knife, breath shallow. Peephole again: silhouette, tall, hooded. Harris. Six-foot-two, broad shoulders. He raised a hand, knocked softly.

No sound escaped her. Sweat trickled down her back. The knob rattled. Picked? Locked, but how long? She backed to the kitchen, scanned for escape. Window. Fire escape rusted, slick with rain. No choice.

The door creaked. Wood splintering. She dialed her sister, voicemail. ‘Lena? If you get this, he’s coming for me. I saw him kill Wilkins. Call police.’ Send.

Crash. The door gave way, chain snapping. Hooded figure stepped in, face shadowed, gloved hands. ‘Elena. We can do this easy.’

Harris’s voice. Deep, measured. Knife up, she screamed, ‘Stay back! I know what you did!’

He advanced slow, hands out. ‘Put it down. You’re hysterical.’

‘You killed him! Succinylcholine overdose! I saw!’

Pause. He lowered his hood. Not Harris. Younger man, unfamiliar. Accomplice? ‘Who are you?’

‘The cleanup. Harris doesn’t like witnesses.’ He lunged.

She dodged, slashed. Blade bit fabric, blood sprayed. He grunted, staggered. She ran for the window, heaved it open. Rain whipped in. Fire escape ladder groaned under her weight as she descended, knife clenched in teeth.

Alley below, puddles reflecting streetlights. Footsteps above, he was following. She hit ground, sprinted for the street. Car headlights blinded her. Horn blared. She waved, frantic. ‘Help! Murderer!’

Car stopped. Driver, middle-aged man. ‘Get in!’

She dove in. ‘Hospital, 5th and Oak. Police!’

He nodded, peeled out. ‘What happened?’

‘I saw my boss kill a patient. Now they’re after me.’

He glanced rearview. ‘Them?’

She turned. No car. Paranoia again? Safe. But her hands shook on the knife, still bloody.

Hospital loomed. She burst into ER, screaming for police. Nurses stared, Dr. Harris emerged from a room, face pale. ‘Elena? What’s going on?’

‘You! You killed Wilkins!’

Security grabbed her. Harris approached, calm. ‘Elena, listen. You administered the meds tonight. The overdose was yours. You panicked, called me. I covered it—switched charts, called it natural. Succinylcholine was in YOUR station. I saved your license.’

Lies. ‘No! I saw you inject him!’

Cops arrived. She babbled the story. They cuffed her gently. ‘Ma’am, calm down. Wilkins died of heart failure. Autopsy pending. But you have blood on your hands. Whose is it?’

The driver from the car? No.

Interrogation room. Claustrophobic, mirror walls. Detective slid photos: Wilkins’ room, timestamped. Elena in frame, syringe in hand. Harris entering after.

‘No… that’s not…’

‘You knew too much about the error you made. Panicked, invented the story. Attacked a security guard in the parking lot— that’s his blood. The “hooded man” was him responding to your screams.’

Flashback hit like a freight train. Her shift. Wilkins complaining. She, exhausted, grabbed wrong vial. Injected. Panic. Hid it. Harris found out, helped cover.

But she remembered seeing Harris do it. Repressed. Guilt twisted to blame.

The apartment? Real. The knock? Her own mind cracking.

Door opened. Harris entered with detective. ‘Elena, you called me tonight, hysterical. Said you couldn’t live with it. I came to help.’

The phone call. Unknown number—herself, from the hospital.

She collapsed. Hunted not by Harris, but by her own crime. The secret that could kill everyone—her career, her freedom—was hers alone.

As they led her away, the rain outside seemed to whisper: You knew too much. Because it was you.