anitha_devi

In a quiet town where secrets fester behind smiles, Dr. Eliot seems like a beacon of hope — kind, brilliant, trusted. But kindness can be a blade sharper than any lie. As a series of tragedies ripple through his patients' lives, the lines between mercy and murder begin to blur.

How far would you go to ease someone's pain? And when does compassion become a crime?

The Kindness That Killed

The hospital boardroom was always too cold.

Cara sat stiffly in one of the vinyl chairs, hands clasped in her lap, the clipboard balanced perfectly still. Across from her sat Dr. Alan Reese, head of Internal Review.

"We're not accusing anyone of wrongdoing," he said. "Not yet. But there's been an inquiry. A former patient's son—Daniel Park—submitted a request for detailed records. There were… inconsistencies."

Cara said nothing. Her pulse throbbed in her ears.

"We're reviewing seven patient files," Reese continued. "All ALS. All rapid declines. All under the supervision of Dr. Eliot Wren."

"I see," she said, carefully neutral.

Reese leaned forward. "Nurse Mendoza, you've worked closely with Dr. Wren. You've assisted in nearly all of those cases. Have you ever seen anything—anything at all—that might suggest… premature intervention?"

She thought of potassium vials. Of curtains pulled. Of Eliot's shaking hands and breaking voice.

Reese studied her, then nodded and flipped his file closed.

"You'll be called again," he said. "For now, keep this quiet."

She nodded and left. Her steps were steady—but only until she reached the stairwell.

Then she collapsed against the wall, knees drawn in, shaking.

Eliot sat in his office, a letter open on the desk before him.

Not one he received—one he was writing.

There are things I can never ask you to forgive. Choices made in silence. Acts done with trembling hands and a heart that believed it was protecting someone.

Your father died peacefully. But not naturally.

I told myself I was ending suffering. But I realize now—I was also ending conversations that weren't mine to close.

He deserved your goodbye. I took that from you. I am sorry.

His hand hovered over the envelope. He had written and destroyed this letter five times already.

But this time, he didn't rip it up.

He didn't know if he'd ever send it. But the truth was now somewhere outside his mind.

Chapter 12: “A Letter, and a Lie”