The hospital was silent that afternoon. Only the faint dripping of water and the soft hum of fluorescent lights broke the stillness.
Nurse Claire tightened her gloves and glanced at the chart again. Male, 27. Total paralysis. Requires full hygiene assistance.

She sighed. It wasn’t supposed to be her shift, but after the chief doctor’s ultimatum — “Do it, or hand in your resignation” — she had no choice.
So there she was, standing beside a fragile young man who hadn’t moved a single limb in years. His face was pale, expression blank, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Only those eyes proved that he was still alive.

“Alright, let’s get you clean,” she whispered softly, filling the tub with warm water and soap. Steam curled upward, fogging the mirror. She lifted him gently with the help of an orderly and lowered him into the water.

For the first few minutes, everything was calm. The sound of running water, the rhythm of her breathing, the dull hum of the hospital behind closed doors.
Then it happened.

When she ran the sponge along his back, she felt something — a movement. Not a muscle twitch, not a spasm — something… crawling.
Her hand froze. The patient’s skin rose and fell, as if something was moving beneath it.
A chill ran down her spine.

She leaned closer, her fingers trembling. The skin under her touch pulsed, almost like a heartbeat — but in the wrong place.
And then the man gasped. His eyes widened with silent terror. He tried to speak, but only a strangled sound escaped his throat.

Claire backed away, horrified. But curiosity — or fear — kept her rooted. She reached for the small surgical scissors on the nearby tray.
With one shaky motion, she made a tiny cut along the spot where the skin had shifted.

What came out made her blood run cold.
Beneath the flesh was a thin transparent tube connected to a small metallic device no larger than a coin. It was vibrating, beating faintly — alive, almost.

Suddenly, the door burst open.
The chief doctor stood there, face pale as paper.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted.
Claire’s voice broke: “What is this? What did you put inside him?”

He stormed over, grabbed her wrist, and hissed:
“You didn’t see anything. You hear me? Nothing.”

Before she could react, he pressed something on the device. It gave a faint beep.
The patient’s body arched, then went completely still. The heart monitor let out a long, flat tone.

Claire’s scream echoed through the tiled room.
“You killed him…”
The doctor didn’t even flinch. “He was already gone. Forget what you saw — or you’ll be next.”

She fled the room, trembling, gasping for air. That night, she didn’t sleep a single second.
When she came back the next morning, the bed was empty. The chart was gone. The man’s name had vanished from the records. It was as if he’d never existed.

She asked questions — nobody answered. The orderly who’d helped her transfer the patient had quit overnight. The chief doctor avoided her gaze.

Three days later, during her night shift, she heard it — a faint tapping on the window.
She turned. Outside, in the darkness, someone — or something — had left handprints on the glass. Wet. Trembling.

She rushed outside, but the courtyard was empty. Only the echo of distant sirens and the whisper of the wind. When she returned, her heart almost stopped — the sponge she had used to wash him was lying on the floor.
On it was a tiny piece of metal — a fragment of that same device.

Terrified, she called the police. They said they’d send someone in the morning.
But instead of officers, two men in black suits appeared at her apartment.

“Miss, you need to sign a confidentiality form,” one said calmly.
“What form? Who are you?”
The other man smiled faintly. “People who keep you alive.”

When she refused, she felt a sharp sting in her neck — and everything went black.

She woke up hours later, in her own bed, head pounding. There was a fresh bandage on her neck. Her phone was wiped clean — no contacts, no photos, no messages.
Only one note remained in her drafts folder:
“You saw too much. Stay silent… or your daughter dies next.”

She disappeared a week later. No resignation, no trace, no goodbye.
But nurses who work the night shift in that same hospital sometimes whisper that they still hear water running in the old bathing room.

And if you listen carefully, beneath the dripping and the hum of pipes…
You can still hear a faint metallic heartbeat — slow, steady, and horribly alive.