The North Wing

At precisely 7:00 A.M., the final four stood before the entrance to the North Wing—each holding the same brass key, each trying to hide the churn of nerves behind calm expressions.

The corridor before them had been sealed for years. Rumors said it once held guests, secret meetings, and memories too fragile to revisit. Today, it held something else.

Their final test.

Above the carved oak doors, an old inscription had been dusted clean:

"The loyal soul must pass through the hall of their own undoing."

No one spoke.

Joy exhaled slowly. Titi offered her a brief, quiet nod. Baba Kareem whispered a prayer. Chika cracked her neck and pushed open the doors.

Four Rooms. Four Histories.

The corridor split four ways, lined with silent staff members who said nothing but gestured each finalist toward a different door.

A printed plaque on each room bore only a name:

Joy Esan

Titi Ogunleye

Chika Madueke

Baba Kareem Olatunji

Each finalist had thirty minutes alone. No cameras. No instructions. Just their past, their doubt, and a final choice.

Joy – The Room of Silence

The room was pale lavender, soft and warm, lit by a single window. A bed rested in the center, and in that bed, a wax figure that looked hauntingly like her grandmother.

A screen flickered beside it: a recorded video.

It was Joy, years ago, at the nursing home. In the corner, her grandmother sat in a wheelchair, smiling faintly while Joy sang to her softly.

Then—another clip.

Joy in the breakroom. Crying. Whispering, "I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of giving and giving and getting nothing back."

Joy's breath hitched.

The walls began to change. Words appeared—her journal entries, her resignation letter, her therapy notes.

"Maybe I only cared for her because I was afraid to be alone."

"What if I stayed for guilt—not love?"

On a table sat a choice: a sealed envelope.

Labeled: "Admit It. Walk Away."

Beside it: a blank card, and a pen.

Joy trembled. Then slowly, she picked up the card.

She wrote:

"Yes, I was tired. Yes, I wanted to leave. But love isn't perfect. And loyalty isn't always gentle. I stayed. I stayed."

She left the blank card, unsigned, and walked out.

Titi – The Room of Command

Titi's room was white sterile, cold, clinical.

A hospital room.

A patient on the bed. Fake, yet real enough to unsettle. Monitors beeped. Charts lay scattered.

Then—voices played overhead, echoing through unseen speakers.

"She should've let the protocol play out."

"Who does she think she is, overriding orders?"

"One day, her pride will kill someone."

The lights flickered.

A console lit up with a flashing red alert: "CODE BLUE. Patient declining."

It was the moment she remembered most: that day when the junior doctor panicked, and she had jumped in, unauthorized.

She'd saved the woman's life.

And yet… she'd been suspended.

In front of her: two buttons.

Override Protocol

Follow Procedure

A voice from the speakers: "What if this time, your instinct is wrong?"

Titi's hand hovered.

She pressed: Override Protocol.

The room dimmed. A calm voice responded:

"You chose risk again. But you chose it for someone else. That is the cost of loyalty."

She opened the door, her jaw tight but her step sure.

Chika – The Room of War

Her room was military grey. No bed. No comfort. Just a table, a uniform, a folder, and a tape recorder.

She knew the folder before she opened it.

An incident from three years ago. Elderly patient. Late-stage Alzheimer's. He'd lashed out kicked, clawed, screamed.

Chika had restrained him.

By force.

Not abuse. But not gentle.

The family filed a complaint. It was buried quietly but it lived in her memory.

She pressed play.

Her own voice, from a disciplinary hearing: "I acted to protect him. I do not regret it."

Another voice: "But could you have de-escalated first?"

The lights dimmed.

On the table sat two cards.

"No Regret."

"I Should Have Waited."

She stared for a long time.

Then picked up a pen.

And wrote her own third option on a blank piece of paper:

"I could have waited. But I chose not to. I'd do it again. And still carry the weight."

She placed it beside the other two.

And walked out without a glance back.

Baba Kareem – The Room of the Fire

His room smelled of ash and memory.

Photographs of his late wife. Charred edges. A teddy bear, half-burned. A child's handwriting scrawled across a faded notebook: "Papa, don't forget me."

His son.

The one lost in the fire.

The guilt that never left.

He walked slowly to the center, where a fireplace crackled a single photo of his son above the mantle.

A voice his own whispered from the walls:

"I was helping another patient when the fire started. I wasn't home. I wasn't there."

Another voice: "You chose duty over family."

A simple question appeared on the screen:

"Would you trade one life saved… for the one you lost?"

He stood there, breathing deeply.

Then spoke aloud.

"No. But I'd still do what I did. Because I am still loyal to the living."

He bowed once.

And walked out.

The Return

All four returned to the corridor at the same moment.

No one spoke.

No one asked.

But something in them had shifted.

They no longer stood as candidates.

They stood as truth-bearers.

And that… that changed the game.

Meanwhile

In her study, Mama Iroko watched the monitors flicker back to black. There had been no recording in the rooms.

But she had felt their answers.

And tonight… she would sleep knowing exactly who would take care of her.

Not because they passed a test.

But because they survived themselves.