Ever since the glucose thing, I'd been jumpy as hell.

Ms. Deinert never mentioned it again—like it never happened.

But the way she looked at me now? Sharp. Like a silent threat.

I kept my mouth shut and buried it deep. Started watching Sienna closer.

Still quiet. Vitals normal.

But little things started standing out.

Her nails? Perfectly trimmed.

Her hair? Clean. Not greasy like every other bedridden patient.

My scalp prickled.

Was she faking?

Once that thought hit, it wouldn't let go.

But I had nothing solid. No proof. No one I could trust.

Every day dragged by, heavy with silence and dread.

Then, a week later—night shift.

Everything changed.

2 a.m. The place was dead silent—I could hear my own heartbeat.

I was sorting charts at the nurse's station when I heard soft footsteps.

Looked up.

A tall guy in a black hoodie, mask, and baseball cap was gliding toward Sienna's room.

And Ms. Deinert was leading him.

The cap was low, face totally hidden.

She whispered something, cracked open the door, and waved him in.

He didn't say a word. Just walked inside.

She didn't follow. Just shut the door gently behind him.

Then she turned—and saw me.

Met my eyes. Calm as ever. Gave this faint little smile, like she hadn't just escorted a masked guy into a coma patient's room at 2 a.m.

Then she strolled over, grabbed a file, and started flipping through it like nothing happened.

My heart was going nuts.

I remembered what my nursing instructor once said—whispers about shady stuff in luxury care homes. The kind no one could ever prove.

Was that what this was?

I didn't wanna finish the thought.

About an hour later, the door opened.

The guy walked out, cap still pulled low. Slowed down a little near the nurse's station—like he looked my way—then kept moving. Ms. Deinert followed him down the hall.

When she came back, face blank as ever, she said, "Vivian, go tidy up Ms. Stein. Change her into a fresh gown."

I just nodded, grabbed the supply cart, and rolled it toward Sienna's room.

The second I opened the door, the smell hit me—cologne and something else. Something gross.

I knew exactly what just went down.

Sienna was lying there, still as ever, like nothing happened. But while changing the sheets, I spotted a few short, curly hairs. Not hers.

My hands started shaking.

'Are they selling off coma patients' bodies?'

All those stories from school came flooding back. My skin crawled.

I fought the nausea and fear, forced myself to finish cleaning her up.

I was about to leave when I saw it—the music box on her nightstand.

Ms. Deinert had told me not to mess with it.

But my hand moved anyway. I popped it open.

No music. Just velvet at the bottom.

Then I saw it—tiny crumbs near the edge. Crackers, maybe?

Heart pounding, I peeled the velvet back.

Underneath: a few chunks of hardtack and half a protein bar.

I froze.

Stared at the girl on the bed, still playing dead.

She was faking.

But why?

What was she trying to pull?

Did Ms. Deinert know?

I looked at her perfect, peaceful face—and felt pure horror.

She wasn't some helpless victim.

She was a monster.

After finding the hardtack and protein bar, I barely slept.

Every time I shut my eyes, I pictured her ripping one open the second I left—just lounging, snacking, like the whole coma thing was a joke.

The next few days, I tried to act normal, but walking into her room felt like wading into thick air. I started watching her—waiting for a slip.

One afternoon, while rubbing her foot, I pressed harder near her sole. Her toes curled. Just a twitch—but real. She froze again fast, like nothing happened. But I knew.

After that, I'd whisper during bed baths, "Ms. Stein, I know you're faking. If I'm right, give me a sign."

Nothing. Not even a blink.

But her breathing hitched—just enough to keep me hooked.

The next day, her parents came.

Desmond Stein looked every inch the power exec—tailored suit, eyes that missed nothing. Matilda had this effortless, polished grace, like she walked out of a lifestyle magazine.

They always showed up with fancy supplements and flowers, smiling for the staff.

"Head Nurse, is Sienna still the same?" His voice was low, commanding.

Ms. Deinert flipped into customer-service mode. "Mr. and Mrs. Stein, her vitals are steady. We're following every order. But..." She sighed like she practiced it. "Still no sign of waking."

Matilda's eyes glossed over. She walked to the bed, grabbed Sienna's hand, and her voice cracked. "Baby, when will you wake up? I miss you so much."

I stood off to the side, trying to read the scene. Were they clueless—or part of it?

After they left, Ms. Deinert pulled me into her office.

"Vivian." She handed me a coffee, her voice weirdly gentle. "How's the job?"

I took the cup. "It's going fine. Thanks."

She sipped her own. "You've seen Ms. Stein's condition. Her parents expect miracles, and that pressure rolls downhill."

Then her smile thinned. "Sometimes it's smarter to turn a blind eye. You're sharp—you understand."

My fingers tightened around the cup. She wasn't being nice. She was warning me.

"But—"

She cut me off. Smile gone. "Her case is being handled by professionals. Your job is just to care for her. That's it."

Her tone dropped, sharper. "Curiosity killed the cat. Around here, silence keeps you safe."

I didn't say a word.

Message received: play along—or walk.

That night, I was back on night shift.

Around 1 a.m., I spotted Ms. Deinert leading another man into Sienna's room.

Different guy this time—short, greasy, the kind who made your skin crawl.

My stomach dropped.

So it wasn't a one-off. This was routine.

Just as he stepped inside, Ms. Deinert didn't walk off. She turned and motioned to me.

"Vivian, come here."

No clue why, but I moved.

"Ms. Stein might need turning. Go help. And remember—don't look where you shouldn't. Don't ask."

Her voice was smooth, but the threat under it was heavy.

I got it instantly.

She was pulling me in—making me part of it. Something she could use against me later.

I wanted to say no. But her stare froze me.

So I took a breath and opened the door.

A dim lamp glowed. The guy had tossed his coat and was already on her, hands everywhere. Sienna lay there, eyes closed, dead still—letting him do whatever he wanted.

When he saw me, he frowned but kept going. "Help me turn her," he muttered, pulling lube from his pocket.

My stomach flipped. I swallowed the bile and stepped toward the bed.

Right as I reached to help, I saw it—Sienna's lips moved. Barely.

A whisper, soft as breath:

"Get me out of here. Or we both go down."