ch6 part5 [going hospital to meet someone.]

Without wasting another second, Mansh stepped toward the door, his fingers curled tightly around the recovered keys, knuckles white with tension. His breath came in shallow, uneven draws, but his movements were fueled by a strange clarity—urgent, focused, yet almost dreamlike in the way the world around him had begun to fade into a haze of muted noise and distant color.

He turned the doorknob slowly at first, as if expecting resistance, then pulled the door open in one smooth motion. A sudden flood of sunlight poured in—sharp, white-gold, and startling. It struck his eyes like a slap. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen at the threshold, squinting against the brightness, his pupils struggling to adjust.

The world outside was loud and alive—birds chirped from unseen branches, a dog barked distantly, the wind whispered through the trees with dry rustling leaves—but none of it registered. All of it felt detached, irrelevant, like background noise in a scene that had already chosen its protagonist and its path.

He stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound echoed with finality.

His shoes scuffed against the stone floor of the veranda as he hurried down the steps. The sun baked the concrete, warm against the soles of his feet through the thin rubber of his slippers.

His bicycle stood where he always left it—just to the right of the gate, half-shadowed by the low wall, the frame slightly leaning as though dozing in the sun. He moved quickly, his grip on the keys firm but sweaty. As he reached the cycle, his hands fumbled for a moment with the small, rusted lock. The key slid in with resistance, and he twisted hard, the metal groaning as it gave way.

Click.

The chain slipped free, and he looped it over the handlebar without care. His breath trembled now—not from exhaustion, but anticipation.

Every movement, every second felt thick with weight, like time itself had become viscous.

He swung a leg over the frame, the motion automatic, a part of him long trained in this rhythm. His feet found the pedals, and with a sharp push, he was off.

The wheels jerked forward, scraping against uneven pavement. The tires hummed loudly beneath him. With each rotation, the world began to blur.

The wind hit him immediately.

It rushed against his face—cool and fast, brushing back his hair, drying the sweat that clung to his skin. It filled his ears with a constant whisper, a pressure that reminded him he was moving, moving fast, moving forward.

Houses zipped past in streaks of color—walls faded by the sun, balconies cluttered with drying clothes, children's bicycles lying forgotten on porches. The trees overhead swayed gently, their branches forming brief tunnels of shade, momentary reprieves from the sun's glare. People walked, talked, crossed streets—but he barely saw them.

His eyes were locked ahead, his hands gripping the handlebars so tightly his knuckles turned pale. Every bump in the road rattled up through the frame into his arms. His legs pumped furiously, driven by instinct and dread.

The hospital.

It was the only thing in his mind now.

A lighthouse in the fog of fear and uncertainty. Whatever had begun—whatever was bleeding from fiction into reality—it had to be confronted.

He couldn't face it alone.

And Ankhush… Ankhush had to know.

His legs screamed with every pedal, the burn in his thighs deepening with each push against the resistance. But he didn't stop.

He didn't ease up. The ache spreading through his calves and up into his hips became a dull roar in the background—an acceptable trade for urgency. His breath came in hard, sharp gasps, each inhale stinging his throat as the cold morning air scraped its way into his lungs. A tight pressure settled in his chest, but still, he pushed forward.

The road curved, revealing a familiar slope—and then, finally, the hospital emerged into view.

It stood tall and stark against the pale sky, its whitewashed walls catching the sunlight and reflecting it like glass. The sign bearing its name—faded from weather, chipped at the edges—hovered just above the main entrance. Even from a distance, Mansh could make out the subtle movements behind the windows: silhouettes of doctors, the occasional flicker of fluorescent light, the sterile hush of a place that existed halfway between life and waiting.

He veered sharply into the lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he coasted to a clumsy stop. His legs, now numb and trembling, barely responded as he dismounted the bike mid-motion. The rear wheel skidded slightly, the bicycle wobbling before landing unevenly on its stand.

Mansh didn't wait. He took off at a jog toward the glass-fronted entrance—then suddenly froze.

Something pulled at him.

He turned his head sharply, eyes darting back.

The bicycle.

It leaned loosely where he left it, still swaying slightly from the sudden stop. And hanging from the chain—glinting in the sunlight—was the key. Still inserted. Still exposed. Vulnerable.

For a moment, he stood torn between two directions. One foot already lifted toward the entrance, the other planted and hesitant. His thoughts scattered in both directions at once.

'What if someone takes it?'

'What if I waste time going back?'

'What if I'm just being paranoid again?'

The key dangled there, swinging gently. A quiet, metallic taunt.

Mansh muttered a curse under his breath, his voice lost beneath the hum of passing vehicles and the faint rustle of trees overhead. Panic surged through him as his eyes remained locked on the bicycle—still resting casually against the rack, the key dangling vulnerably from the chain like an open invitation.

He spun on his heel, breath catching in his throat as he sprinted back.

Each footfall thudded against the pavement with uneven urgency, the muscles in his legs already stiff from the ride, now straining to respond.

Reaching the bike, he fumbled with the lock, fingers clumsy with haste.

The key scraped against the metal slot once, then again, before finally sliding in. He turned it with a sharp click, yanked the lock tight around the frame, and gave it two quick tugs to make sure it held. The cold metal bit into his fingertips.

Only then did he let out a sharp exhale, his chest rising with effort.

Without looking back, he turned and sprinted toward the hospital entrance, the glass doors sliding open just as he reached them, releasing a burst of cold, sterilized air into the heat outside. The doors hissed faintly as they parted, and Mansh slipped inside, his silhouette swallowed whole by the sterile white light beyond.

The instant Mansh stepped inside the building, the world seemed to shift.

Gone was the sun, the wind, the familiar chaos of the outside world. In its place came a sterile stillness—unforgiving and cold.

The scent of disinfectant clung to the air like invisible fog, sharp and clinical, wrapping itself around his senses with an almost suffocating insistence. It filled his lungs, coated the back of his throat, and settled heavy in his chest.

For a brief moment, he stood frozen just past the automatic doors, blinking against the stark, artificial lights that bathed everything in a flat, colorless hue.

The tiled floor beneath his feet gleamed faintly, untouched and too clean, while the low hum of fluorescent tubes overhead buzzed with a lifeless rhythm. Somewhere down a hallway, a machine beeped in steady intervals—a heartbeat in a place where everything else felt still.

He didn't let himself hesitate.

Didn't look around.

Didn't acknowledge the security guard behind the desk or the receptionist tapping quietly at her computer.

He turned left, where he knew the elevators were—but his eyes barely glanced at them.

No.

Waiting in a metal box, even for just a few seconds, felt unbearable. The need to act, to move, surged through his veins like electricity. His legs carried him past the lift doors, straight to the emergency exit at the end of the corridor, where the red "STAIRS" sign buzzed faintly above.

He pushed the door open. The heavy metal groaned slightly on its hinges.

The stairwell swallowed him whole.

Cooler than the lobby, dimmer too, it smelled faintly of cement and rusted railings.

His footsteps echoed with each impact, bouncing off the walls in ghostly repetition. He gripped the railing tightly and began to climb—two steps at a time, then three.

By the third floor, his breath was already coming faster.

By the fifth, the muscles in his thighs began to protest.

Each landing he reached blurred into the next—bare walls, red-painted numbers, emergency lights that flickered dully without warmth. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. Something inside him wouldn't let him pause, not even to catch his breath.

By the eighth floor, his lungs burned. The air felt thin, dry, like it was refusing to fill his chest all the way. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, soaking the collar of his shirt. His fingers, still gripping the railing, had begun to tremble slightly, both from exertion and the cold.

He forced himself up the final flight, each step heavier than the last. His legs were lead. His shoulders sagged under invisible weight.

Finally, the ninth floor.

He pushed through the door with the last of his strength, stumbling slightly as he reentered the main hallway.

Here, the world was quieter.

Thicker.

The overhead lights stretched in a long, blinding line above, casting pale reflections across the waxed linoleum floor. The silence was different here—more still, more watchful. It wasn't the absence of noise, but the presence of something unsaid. Something held back.

Mansh's eyes scanned the doors lining both sides of the corridor, their surfaces all identical in their dull beige paint and metal number plates.

He didn't need to read them.

He already knew which door to go to.

Room 969.

His heart thudded harder, as if trying to claw its way out of his chest. His breath came in sharp, uneven pulls, not from the climb anymore—but from what might come next.

There it was.

At the far end of the hallway.

Room 969.

He stood still for a heartbeat. Then another.

The door felt impossibly far away.

Every step he took now felt heavy, his shoes making soft squeaks against the floor. The distance closed slowly, like a dream where time dragged and refused to let him reach what he was chasing.

Ten steps.

Then seven.

Then five.

He could see the metal handle now—slightly worn from use, dull under the white lights.

His hand, clammy and pale, reached forward.

And then… he stopped just short of touching it.

A single breath left him in a slow, trembling exhale as he stared at the door.

Room 969.

Behind it—Ankhush.

And maybe, just maybe…some one whose can help him finding– answers.

***

A/N: fiinallly he rached the hospital.

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