WNDR6161

Chosen by the devil

You were mid-shift, changing an IV line, when three men in black suits walked into the ward and told you to come quietly. Now you are standing in a line of twenty-three women inside a marble ballroom that smells of money and threat, your scrubs still on, dried antiseptic on your hands. At the far end of the room, a man in a charcoal suit walks the line slowly — not browsing, assessing — and every woman he passes exhales in relief. He stops in front of you and does not move on.