CHAPTER 3:- Beneath the Neon Silence

Arun's breath was ragged, his mind reeling from what he had just witnessed. His skin crawled—not with fever, but with disgust. The world outside was collapsing under the weight of a pandemic, hospitals had turned into graveyards, and yet, here within these walls, humans were still humans. Still driven by greed. Still slaves to their impulses.

He exhaled slowly, willing himself to focus. He didn't have the luxury to dwell on it now. He had to move.

He cracked the door open just enough to slip out, careful not to make a sound. The corridor was eerily empty. Only the distant, strained coughs of patients broke the silence, some feeble, some violent—like their bodies were trying to expel death itself. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting a dull, sickly glow on the cracked tiles beneath his feet.

Every step felt heavier than the last. His chest ached, his throat burned from holding back the urge to cough. But his destination was clear—out of here, to her. It was madness, he knew. But love had its own brand of insanity. It defied logic, mocked reason.

Descending to the first floor, he halted. A cluster of people had gathered near the nurse's station, their heads turned toward a man standing in front of them. Arun shrank back into the shadows, pressing himself against the stairwell wall. Not now. Not another damn delay.

He risked a glance. The man in charge was tall, lean, with a half-buttoned white shirt and black trousers. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily in the stale air. He wasn't just talking—he was tearing into them.

"What's happening in my hospital?" the man snapped, his voice sharp and furious.

No one answered. The nurses, the compounders, even the older staff—they all avoided his gaze.

"People are dying in front of you," he continued, exhaling a slow drag of smoke. "And you vultures are selling oxygen cylinders and medicines outside? How much is a human life worth to you, huh? Five thousand? Ten? Or do you charge extra if they beg?"

No one dared to speak. The only sound was the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor from a nearby ward.

"The government is sending important people here," the man went on, his tone lowering but no less threatening. "If even one of them dies because of this filth, I swear, when this nightmare ends, you won't just be out of a job. You'll be behind bars."

He took another slow drag before flicking the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under his heel. "Rakesh!"

A young compounder hesitated before stepping forward, his shoulders stiff with fear. He looked barely twenty, his uniform oversized, making him appear even smaller.

"Did you speak to Dr. Anirudh?" the man asked, impatience laced in his tone.

"I...I did, sir," Rakesh stammered, wringing his hands. "But he said it's not his duty. That he's just a surgeon, not responsible for managing supplies or finances."

A slow, humorless chuckle left the man's lips. "That guy..." He shook his head. "I don't know what his damn problem is."

Arun's mind locked onto the name. Anirudh. Again. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it today. There was something about this doctor, something the others knew but wouldn't say outright.

But right now, Arun didn't have time to play detective. The next staircase was across the hall, leading straight to the ground floor. If he could reach it, he could slip out. He took a deep breath, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Now or never.

He moved. Slow. Measured. Every step precise. The man's voice behind him still carried, giving him cover.

The ground floor was quieter. The once-chaotic reception area now felt abandoned, save for the two security guards stationed at the entrance. The reception desk, usually bustling with inquiries and frantic calls, stood deserted—papers scattered haphazardly across its surface, a half-drunk cup of chai forgotten in the corner, its surface now cold and forming a thin film. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant hum of machines and the occasional rustle of a stray sheet of paper shifting in the stale air.

The hospital's main entrance loomed ahead, its glass doors smeared with fingerprints and streaks of dried disinfectant. The once-polished floor tiles were scuffed and dull, bearing the weight of countless desperate footsteps. Outside, the darkness of the curfew-laden night pressed against the glass, interrupted only by the distant, flickering glow of streetlights.

A red neon sign above the entrance flickered inconsistently, its letters spelling out Keshav Memorial Hospital in both Gujarati and English. The sign had once been a beacon for the sick, the hopeful, the grieving. Now, it stood like a warning, buzzing faintly, as if exhausted from witnessing too much death.

Near the sliding glass doors, two security guards stood like statues, their hands clasped behind their backs. Their navy-blue uniforms, slightly crumpled, bore the hospital's emblem on the sleeves. One of them, a stocky man with tired eyes, shifted his weight from one foot to another, his gaze sweeping the nearly empty reception hall. The other, taller and leaner, chewed on a piece of gum, his posture tense but distracted.

To their left, a rusting metal stretcher stood abandoned against the wall, its wheels caked with grime. A half-empty bottle of sanitizer lay on the reception desk, its pump broken, the pungent scent of alcohol lingering in the air.

Beyond the entrance, through the glass doors, the world outside was eerily lifeless. No honking rickshaws, no street vendors, no restless city sounds. Just silence—a silence that felt heavier than the walls of the hospital itself.

Arun swallowed hard. Freedom was right there. A mere few steps between him and the outside world. But the guards. The moment he moved, they would notice.

And then—footsteps.

A compounder emerged from the corridor to the right, walking toward the stairs.

Arun's stomach clenched. Nowhere to run. No time to think.

His body went rigid, his breath hitched. The compounder was getting closer.

This was it. The moment of reckoning.