Elena Rostova stood with her back pressed against the door frame of Room 412.
The brass horn speaker in the corridor ceiling hissed with the steady carrier hum of an active microphone.
Clink.
The sound of fine porcelain touching silver resonated through the empty corridor with uncanny clarity.
Behind the sound came the low, rhythmic purr of a commercial air-conditioning system. It was the sound of the executive suite on the eighth floor, where the lights never flickered and the air smelled of imported Earl Grey tea.
The shift clock clicked forward: 02:01 AM.
“Good morning, Ward Four-B,” Director Evelyn Cross’s voice drawled through the speaker. Her tone was smooth, cultured, and devoid of warmth. “I see our little night orderly and Nurse Rostova have been busy playing courtroom with my long-term patients.”
Elena reached to her utility belt, her knuckles white as she clicked the talkback channel.
