Zaherran, Midnight.
In the dim hotel room, the clock ticked over to midnight. Alethea adjusted her black hoodie, pulling it over her head with military precision. Across the room, Sathvic tightened the straps on a compact backpack, his expression calm but focused.
Zorion, on the other hand, was holding a pack of colorful candies with the proud mischief of a child who'd just shoplifted sugar.
"We should take candies with us," he declared. "Y'know, to seem professional. Kidnappers always carry bribes."
Alethea turned to him so fast, her hoodie nearly flew off.
"We are not kidnappers," she snapped. "We're taking her back. Because that's what's best for her. Because that's what she wants."
Zorion blinked. "Right. Yes. Noble cause. Candy for the noble cause."
Sathvic, ever the tactician, chimed in, "We should cover our faces. Surveillance tech is still new and limited globally—but we can't risk being recorded."
Masks went on. Black outfits were zipped. Footsteps fell silent.
They slipped out of the hotel like shadows. Three ghosts against Zaherra's slumbering skyline.
Then came Zorion's voice—soft, amused.
"You two look seriously creepy."
Sathvic glanced sideways. "You're wearing the exact same thing."
Zorion smirked. "Yeah, but I pull it off better."
What he didn't mention was that the black hoodie he had on wasn't even his—it was Sathvic's. The better one of the two black tops available. Sathvic, in a rare act of nobility, had taken the cheaper, slightly faded one for himself. And now here Zorion was, wrapped in his friend's better hoodie, mocking everyone like he walked the Paris runway.
"Unbelievable," Alethea muttered.
"Fashion is a form of intimidation," Zorion replied, giving a dramatic turn.
"If you get us caught," Sathvic said, adjusting his mask, "I will personally let Zaherran guards take you."
"Rude," Zorion said, tossing a candy in his mouth.
---
Meanwhile…
At the hospital, Inaya lay curled on her cot, wide awake. Her arms were tightly wrapped around a worn plush rabbit with one ear stitched in blue thread. She hadn't blinked in minutes.
Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked the doll:
"Will they come… na?"
The hallway outside her room was still. But somewhere out in the city, three masked strangers walked through the night—racing time, rules, and fate.
They were coming.
Zaherran Hospital. 12:14 A.M.
The back gate clicked once. Then again. Then—
Click.
It opened.
Alethea straightened, slipping the bent hair clip back into her ponytail with quiet satisfaction. "Didn't even break it," she muttered.
Zorion raised a brow. "How many doors have you broken into before?"
"Fewer than the number of times you've embarrassed yourself in public," she replied flatly. "Now shut up and move."
Sathvic went inside, scanning the empty hallway with eyes sharp as a hawk's. No guards on this side. The hospital's rear was still under renovation—a security blind spot they had noticed at their previous visit.
The walls inside were off-white and cold, the flicker of a half-broken overhead light adding to the sterile tension.
They moved.
Silent. Synchronized. Shadows on mission.
Zorion resisted the urge to hum a spy-movie theme under his breath.
Their target—Room 202. Second floor.
They reached the stairwell.
Sathvic moved first, glancing up the flight, then whispered: "Clear. Let's go."
One step. Two. Three—
Footsteps.
Sharp. Fast. Coming down the stairs.
The trio froze.
For half a second, no one breathed.
Then—
Alethea grabbed Zorion's hoodie, yanked him back. Sathvic shoved open a dusty janitor's closet beside the stairwell. They piled in, breathless, barely making it before the light from above spilled down the steps.
The closet was dark, barely wide enough for three people. Zorion's shoulder was in Sathvic's face. A mop handle jabbed Alethea's leg. No one moved.
Heavy boots echoed past the door. A security guard. Whistling.
The moment stretched like rubber. Zorion slowly raised a candy toward his mouth.
Alethea smacked it out of his hand.
He whispered, "Rude."
She whispered back, "No sugar before success."
The footsteps faded.
Silence.
Sathvic peeked out.
"Clear. Let's move."
They slipped back into the stairwell, breathing again. Zorion shook his head as they started upward.
"Why do all good deeds start with heart attacks?"
Alethea didn't answer. But her fingers were clenched a little tighter now.
They were close.
And nothing about this night was going to be easy.
Zaherran Hospital. 12:27 A.M.
The stairwell door groaned open onto the first floor just for them to find out the second floor's stairwell was locked. Sathvic moved ahead first—low, sharp, silent. Zorion followed, mask tight against his face, hoodie still slightly oversized, the candy packet finally zipped into his jacket pocket.
The hallway stretched dimly before them. Pale green tiles, fluorescent lights buzzing like old flies, and the ever-present scent of disinfectant wrapped around them like static.
Then—
Laughter.
Not far. To the right. Behind a half-open sliding door.
Zorion slowed. He peered in.
Three doctors sat around a wheeled trolley table inside what looked like a break room. A kettle steamed between them, and foil containers were spread wide open—steamed rice, flatbread, something spicy with chickpeas. Their shoulders drooped with exhaustion, but their voices were light, laughing through bites like people trying to forget they were still on shift.
Zorion muttered, "At this hour? How is Alethea supposed to use her hairclip on the stairwell if they are right there"
Sathvic's eyes narrowed, as if to say: Yes, and that hour will be your last if you keep talking.
Alethea motioned leftward.
They crept down the corridor—ducking out of line-of-sight. They were shadows again, stitched to the corners of the hallway.
A turn.
Then another.
They reached the General Waiting Area.
Empty chairs sat in harsh rows like forgotten graves. A vending machine blinked dull green in the far corner, casting a lonely glow. The whole space smelled faintly of rubber gloves and leftover fear.
Then—
A voice.
"…Did you see that?"
One of the doctors.
Zorion held his breath. The trio ducked as quickly as they can
"By the chairs," said the man. "It looked like… three people. Moving."
The other two stopped eating.
"What are you talking about, Malik?" one asked, standing to look.
"There. Just now."
All three peered into the dark waiting area. Flashlight beams didn't come. Just narrowed eyes.
Alethea's fingers curled tight around a chair leg.
Zorion didn't move.
Sathvic reached toward his belt—his hand near the taser.
Then—
The third doctor laughed. "You need sleep, man. There's no one there."
"Bad bulbs and worse coffee. They'll mess with your eyes."
Malik hesitated—one foot forward. Then back.
"…Yeah. Maybe."
They went back.
The waiting area stayed tense for another ten heartbeats—then Sathvic signaled a move.
They slipped left again—deeper into the corridor that curved out of the doctor's view.
Only once they were far from earshot did Alethea whisper:
"Crap."
She stopped in her tracks, staring ahead. "Where's the alternative staircase?"