Time had slipped by like an icy breath since the incident with Isaac. Only a few hours had passed, and yet the air felt heavier, denser, as if the medical center itself were holding its breath.
Miguel sat across from a patient, a man in his fifties whose eyes were too wide, too anxious. The sterile white light struck his eyelids, revealing every wrinkle, every twitch of unease. The sharp scent of disinfectant and alcohol floated in the air—a mix of cleanliness and fear.
"So, Mr. Clark, you're saying the flames speak to you in your sleep?" Miguel asked, his voice neutral, almost mechanical.
Clark lifted his head, his dark eyes filled with worry. He glanced around nervously, as if trying to detect unseen observers, before fixing his gaze on Miguel.
"They don't just talk to me. They tell me everything—everything I need to know about them, their desires, their cravings…"
"You've already told me all that. What I want to know is—what do they gain from you?" Miguel cut in.
Clark tilted his head, his expression shifting radically. His lips stretched into a grotesquely wide smile, one that consumed his entire face—a smile of satisfaction.
"I tell them everything too. Everything they ask. I tell them how Mr. Isaac treated us with disdain, how the other doctors don't see us as human beings."
Then he leaned closer, inching toward Miguel.
"And I tell them… how kind you are, Miguel."
Miguel did not flinch, though he knew he should respect safety protocols but he always allowed patients a degree of freedom, to show them they were not toxic waste unfit to touch.
"Well, thank you for the compliment," Miguel replied, his lips curving into a practiced, false smile.
Clark leaned back onto the bed, his dark eyes never leaving Miguel. Meanwhile, Miguel scribbled a few notes in his notebook—but even as he wrote, his gaze remained fixed on Clark.
Every gesture, every micro-expression ran through his mind like a silent algorithm. The wide grin, the tightened fists… patterns invisible to others, but not to Miguel.
He lowered his eyes for a moment, glancing at Clark's file.
Clark—an arsonist, institutionalized after being judged for pyromaniac tendencies. Under normal circumstances, his claims of hearing flames whisper in his dreams could be explained by that.
But now, nothing was normal. Flipping to the next page, Miguel scanned the notes of another patient.
Mrs. Michel was nother patient that was under the care of miguel Her life had been shattered by a car accident in her youth, one that killed her twin sister and their parents. Since then, she had adopted her sister's identity, speaking and dressing as her, until she was consumed by the role and no one was able to help her since she didn't have any other relative.
Yet in recent days, her behavior had changed. She had begun insisting that her dead sister visited her in dreams, demanding information about the hospital and its doctors. The dreams had shaken her so deeply that she now behaved as her true self again—but spent most of her time sleeping. When woken, she erupted into violent fits.
Page after page, Miguel found the same notes: patients whose pathologies were suddenly interwoven with dreams. Dreams where voices demanded answers about the hospital. Dreams followed by overwhelming drowsiness and fury at interruption.
A sharp noise cracked against wood, breaking his focus. The door handle rattled, and a short nurse with brown hair appeared, her expression grave.
"Mr. Clayton, the director wants to see you. Now," she said, stressing the word.
Miguel straightened in his chair, as though surfacing from another world.
"I'm in the middle of a consultation."
"Immediately," she insisted.
Silence settled over the room like a weight. After a few moments, Miguel understood he had no choice. Rising, he cast one last glance at Clark—only to find him already sprawled on the bed, eyelids shut, slipping into unnaturally fast slumber.
Perplexed, Miguel lingered a second longer. How could someone so animated just moments ago fall asleep in the blink of an eye?
Leaving the nurse with Clark, he stepped into the corridor. His face remained calm, but his mind spun with unease. The patterns were too clear. This was no coincidence.
At the director's office, Miguel resolved to share his findings, absurd as they might sound. He knocked.
"Enter," a deep voice answered.
The office was orderly, almost austere. A wall of medical volumes loomed behind a polished oak desk, cluttered with a computer, notepad, and a steaming mug.
Behind it sat a man in his sixties, bald and stern in his white coat. His gray eyes scrutinized Miguel as though weighing every move.
"Sit, Mr. Clayton."
Miguel obeyed, crossing his legs and sitting upright. His black eyes met the director's, unreadable.
"Do you know why I've called you in?"■■■■■asked, his tone carrying a trace of anger.
"If this is about Mr. Isaac… I suppose—"
"Yes," he interrupted. "You understand that assaulting a certified physician could have ended your internship....and your career."
Miguel's stare remained steady, impassive.
"I know, Dr. Connor."
The curt, cold response made Connor sigh. His rigid posture finally eased, his frustration softening into something wearier.
"Damn it, Miguel, you have no idea what kind of trouble you could land in."
Miguel's tone stayed even.
"I imagine it must be serious."
Connor leaned back, looking almost defeated.
"You've been here four months. By now, you could at least drop the stiff formality."
Connor had grown to respect Miguel's professionalism—but also longed to see him lower his mask, just once.
Not more than an hour ago issac had arrived in his office showing a broken nose and complaining that Miguel had provoked him and hadattacked him, proclaiming that his father would cover for him even if he lodged a complaint.
With his military background connor was sure that Miguel could gave broken the Seck of issac but smoking at his detached demeanor he couldn't believe the version of isaac.
Of course there was another reason like the fact that isaac was bothering miguel since his arrival but me connor could say that was his fault.
"To be clear, I don't care much about that scuffle," he admitted, flipping open a folder. "I'll handle Isaac myself."
"No need to trouble yourself," Miguel replied.
"It's no trouble for myself miguel I just want to repair something I did," Connor cut him off. "Though… your father…"
He stopped, a chill running down his spine under Miguel's piercing stare. He knew that look contained more than a warning because he was touching a sensitive topic.
His father
Closing his eyes briefly to steady himself, Connor resumed:
"Miguel, your file is on my desk. First you enlisted at eighteen, served two years in the military, then studied psychology at university. Four years for your bachelor's, now working on your master's. And that brings us to now."
He paused, then continued.
"I'll be honest: I hate nepotism. When your father called to pull strings, I was reluctant. I didn't know what kind of man you were. But once you arrived… you proved yourself. Professional. Cold, yes—but fair. You treat everyone the same: doctors and patients alike. And that is rare."
"Rare?" Miguel asked.
"Yes. Rare, because once people are sent here, they're forgotten. Seen as less than human. But not by you. Some of your patients have improved under your care—and you should be proud of that."
"Does this mean I'll get a good evaluation?"
Connor chuckled, weary but genuine.
"You'll get more than that. When you finish your master's, I'll recommend you to even better institutions."
Miguel lowered his gaze. For a fleeting second, pride—real pride—broke through his impassive mask. He
Connor said nothing. He understood the feeling miguel was having because in the past he was in his place.
"Since today's your last day here before you return to Los Angeles," Connor added, "I'd like to ask one last favor."
Miguel's expression hardened again.
"What kind of favor?"
"You've noticed the… unusual states of some of our patients."
Miguel immediately knew what he meant—the recurring symptoms across cases.
"To tell you the truth," Connor said, his voice tightening, "it's not just your patients. Every patient in this hospital has been affected."
Miguel blinked. Every patient? The situation was worse than he thought.
"At first, I thought it was some sick joke—a stunt they coordinated to get attention. But I was wrong. And now it's far more serious."
"How serious?" Miguel asked, the air thickening with tension.
Connor's expression grew grave. His voice dropped as he delivered the words:
"Miguel, right now every patient in this hospital is in a sleep… from which none of them can't be awakened."