The light on the wall blinked red.
Not the siren — not yet.
Just a soft click.
A warning.
Like the building itself knew we were somewhere we didn't belong.
Isla froze.
Her eyes said run.
But my hands said copy faster.
---
I had Celia's file open on the floor.
My own beside it.
And three others I barely had time to scan, but I couldn't leave behind.
> Patient D-11072 — Reported as discharged. File says "restrained until transfer approval." No date attached.
> Patient K-74299 — Fifteen years old. Died during evaluation. No family notified.
> Patient A.R.M. — My initials. My handwriting. But a doctor's name on all the entries I never wrote.
---
The truth wasn't in what was there.
It was in what didn't match.
The pages stapled out of order.
The signatures copied and pasted.
The observations cut and reworded like the staff were playing scriptwriters.
---
> "Five minutes," Isla whispered.
"Or the motion sensor hits phase two."
> "That's not a full alarm?"
> "No. That's just the system asking us if we want to live."
---
But I couldn't leave empty-handed.
Not after what I saw.
So I made a choice.
I grabbed a Sharpie from Isla's hoodie.
Flipped to the back of Celia's last report.
And wrote in thick black ink:
> "This is not a hospital. This is a script. And I am no longer an actor."
I folded it.
Slid it into my bra.
Close to my ribs.
Close to the part of me that had always known this place wasn't what it pretended to be.
---
We left with three files.
And something bigger:
The system's heartbeat.
Because now we knew where to cut it open.