Mission Accomplished

The hallway is empty.

I exhale—barely.

Now the path is clear.

Now they can run.

"Well, I also have another issue to discuss," I say, shifting my tone with subtle urgency. "Some pharmacists have been reporting repeated losses of ingredients from their inventory. It's starting to affect our provision chains. I was wondering if maybe… we could talk about it? There's a chance someone inside the hospital might be stealing them."

The guards exchange puzzled glances, clearly caught off guard.

"Someone in the hospital?" one scoffs. "That doesn't sound likely."

Another shrugs, cigarette dangling from his fingers. "Could be nothing. But hey—why don't you come in? We'll show you the visitor logs, just so you don't get the wrong idea or mix up names."

"Sure," I say, keeping my tone relaxed, neutral.

They turn and head into the guard room, and I follow casually behind them, though every step I take is brimming with intention.

This is it.

With all three guards now inside the room, the hallway is finally clear. The corridor beyond is wide open—just the way we need it. Angela and the captive women can now move freely down toward the exit without risk of being seen.

I just need to keep the guards talking a little longer.

Inside, the room smells like instant noodles and stale smoke. A flickering monitor plays a muted news channel in the corner. One of the guards rifles through a shelf and pulls out a dusty binder, flipping pages lazily.

The conversation drags on. I keep feeding them made-up details—false delivery schedules, exaggerated shortage numbers, vague "reports" from nonexistent sources. They nod, grunt, and occasionally ask useless questions, none of them sharp enough to catch the lie.

After what feels like a lifetime wrapped in empty conversation, I glance at the clock.

It's time.

I slowly stand, brushing off my coat.

"Thank you for taking the time," I say with a polite smile. "I'll come back next time with the actual shipment, once the ingredient issue is sorted. Oh, and thanks for the pharmacist contact—that'll be helpful."

"No problem," one of them mumbles, already half-interested in his phone again.

"Take care," another says as I make my way to the door.

They follow me out a few seconds later, shuffling back down the hallway toward the far end, their conversation already drifting elsewhere.

As soon as I turn the corner, I pivot the opposite direction, careful not to rush. I keep my pace even, my expression blank—just another visitor leaving.

I descend the stairwell quickly but calmly, my boots tapping softly against the steps. The air grows colder as I near the ground floor.

Finally, I slip through the back corridor and push open the narrow door leading out to the backyard.

The lot is empty.

Every van is gone.

"Yes," I whisper under my breath, heart pounding with quiet relief. 

A smile tugs at my lips.

I tug my hood over my head and vanish down the hidden path along the fence, slipping back into the snow-dusted streets like a ghost in the morning light.

Mission accomplished.

"Umm… Julian?"

A soft voice gently breaks the silence.

Julian stirs awake, his eyelids fluttering open. His neck aches slightly from sleeping curled on the small guardian bed, but the voice is familiar—calm, motherly.

It's Monica.

She stands near the door in her doctor's white coat, her hair neatly tied back, her ID clipped to her pocket. Morning sunlight streams in behind her, painting warm streaks across the sterile walls of the hospital room.

Julian quickly sits up, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he straightens his posture.

"Oh—I'm sorry," he says, rising to his feet. His voice is hoarse, and he rubs the back of his neck instinctively.

He glances at his phone on the side table: 8:30 a.m.

Monica shakes her head gently. 

"It's all right," she says kindly. "You can rest more if you need to. I just thought… maybe you should go home and get proper rest. A shower. A change of clothes."

Her voice is soft, but her concern is clear.

Julian nods slowly, his eyes drifting toward Grace.

She lies in the same position as the day before—still, serene, her chest rising and falling beneath the blanket. She looks as if she's only sleeping. Peaceful. Distant. Untouched by time.

"All right," he says quietly. "I should leave now anyway…"

He knows he needs to return home—to shower, reset, try to breathe for a while. He can't stay like this forever, camped beside her hospital bed. But even as he speaks the words, his heart aches with reluctance.

"Thanks, Julian," Monica says with a gentle smile. She steps out quietly, leaving him alone in the room once more.

Julian smooths out the blanket on the guardian's bed, folding it neatly with practiced care. Then he picks up his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and turns back to Grace for one last look.

He steps closer to her side.

"Grace," he whispers, the name catching slightly in his throat. "I'll come back."

His hand brushes hers for a fleeting second, and then he forces himself to step away. Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last.

Outside, the hospital fades behind him.

Soon, he's back in the small comfort of his studio apartment. The air inside feels oddly warm, like it has waited patiently for his return.

Without hesitation, he walks into the bathroom, turns on the hot water, and steps into the shower. The warmth wraps around him, washing away the stiffness of the night. Steam curls up around his face as he lets the silence hold him.

Afterward, he moves through his routine with quiet precision.

He pats a light layer of skincare onto his face, dries his hair with the hum of the dryer, and changes into a fresh white collared shirt, pressed black pants, and a soft blue cardigan.

Standing by the entrance, he slides on his watch, adjusts his bag—then stops.

His eyes shift toward the closet.

"Should I bring extra clothes…?" he murmurs to himself.

There's a beat of hesitation.

"Or am I overreacting…"

He walks over to the drawer, opens it, and takes out two simple shirts—one black, one white. He folds a pair of socks as well.

Then pauses.

He stares at the small pile in his hands.

For a second, he imagines returning tonight. And the next night. And the next. He pictures the slow rhythm of waiting, the weight of hope.

After a long moment, he sets the clothes down again.

"No," Julian mutters to himself, standing by the closet, the extra clothes still in his hands. "Bringing all my clothes to her hospital room… that's too much. Her mother might think I'm being overly dramatic."

He exhales, then folds the shirts and socks neatly, returning them to the drawer.

"I'll just go back and forth," he says softly. "Between home and the hospital. That's more reasonable."

But as he steps away, a sudden wave of dizziness sweeps through him. His vision blurs slightly, and he reaches out, steadying himself against the wall.

He sighs. His body's giving in—exhaustion finally catching up to him.

"All right," he whispers, running a hand through his hair. "Just an hour of sleep… then I'll head to the school."

He crosses the room and lies down on his bed, the familiar scent of clean laundry and morning light filling the small space. As soon as his head hits the pillow, a heavy stillness wraps around him.

Sleep begins to pull him under like a tide.

His thoughts, however, refuse to go quietly.

Grace. She's there—in the hospital bed, still as snow, eyes closed, lost in a silence I can't reach.

Julian closes his eyes, letting the thought of her fill the quiet.

"By the time I go back…" he whispers into the pillow, voice fading into drowsiness, "I hope she's awake… and that she smiles at me… like nothing ever happened…"

And with that quiet wish lingering in the room, Julian slips into sleep—his breath soft, steady, and full of hope that tomorrow will be different.

"Where is Grace?"

Professor Candice's voice cuts through the low murmur of the classroom as she scans the rows of seats, her eyes briefly flicking to the attendance sheet in her hand.

Students shuffle into their seats, the mood slightly more relaxed than usual—this is, after all, the final lecture of the term for the major course. Some chat softly, others scroll through their phones, but the question makes a few heads turn.

From the back of the room, Harry slowly raises his hand.

"She's… sick right now," he says, keeping his voice steady, though something in his expression betrays the weight in his chest.

Candice frowns slightly, her brow furrowing.

"She didn't submit the final essay, either," she mutters, more to herself than anyone else.

Harry's jaw tightens.

He clears his throat and speaks up again. "Mrs. Candice, may I speak with you after class?"