Right beneath his collarbone was a tiny puncture mark — a delicate pinpoint on the skin, with a faint bruise around it. Not an accidental scratch. Not a random blemish.
A mark from a needle.

And not once — but many times.

Her mind began stringing together the evidence:

Someone had been injecting him regularly.
Secretly.
Without doctor’s approval.
Without medical documentation.

But who? And for what purpose?

She set the sponge aside and noticed another detail. Under his thumbnail was a faint dark smudge — like ink.
As if he had desperately tried to write something… despite not being able to move.

Her heart sank.

“You were trying to tell someone, weren’t you?”

His gaze shifted — a subtle movement, but full of meaning.
A silent plea:
“Notice. Understand. Don’t ignore this.”

For the first time, she pushed her phone aside. Fully aside.
She wasn’t a distracted worker anymore — she was present.

She sat by the tub, supporting his head gently, and whispered:

“You’re not simply paralyzed… someone did this to you, didn’t they?”

His eyes blinked once — a firm yes.

A chill slid across her spine.

She finished the bath carefully, dried him softly, and returned him to his room. When the orderly stepped out, she leaned close and asked quietly:

“If you can understand me… blink once.”

He blinked once.

“If someone’s been giving you secret injections… blink twice.”

He blinked twice.

That was the moment something in her shifted.

This wasn’t a routine duty.
This wasn’t just patient care.
She realized: someone had harmed him — deliberately — and he had no voice of his own.

She went straight to the chief physician’s office. Inside, anger churned through her thoughts:

How can this be allowed? He’s aware. He’s suffering. And they just—

But when she opened the door, she caught the chief speaking quietly on the phone:

“…yes, continue the injections. He’s helpless. He can’t prove anything… yes, the family trusts the diagnosis…”

Her breath stuck in her throat.

He knew.
He was involved.

She accidentally pressed the door handle too loudly — it creaked. The chief turned sharply.

She looked straight into his eyes.

“I know what you’ve been doing.”

He narrowed his gaze.

“About what exactly?”

“About the injections not listed in his medical file. About the drug you’ve been giving him.”

He set his phone down deliberately.
Turned toward her.
And stepped closer.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” he said coldly. “Let me give you a piece of advice—stay out of this.”

She lifted her head.

“That wasn’t advice. That was a threat. I’m not afraid.”

He smirked.

“You’re just an orderly now.”

And that’s when she answered:

“Not anymore. I’m a witness.”

He froze.
She turned and walked out.

That night she didn’t sleep. She researched. Cross-checked symptoms. Compared medical cases. And eventually discovered the truth: the injections contained a compound that causes progressive paralysis and muscle atrophy — while leaving the mind untouched.

Meaning… he hadn’t lost movement naturally.
He had been forced into paralysis.

On purpose.

The next morning she didn’t come alone — she arrived with medical inspectors.

They couldn’t silence her now.
Couldn’t fire her.
Couldn’t bury the evidence.

As files were reviewed…
as old logs were retrieved…
as signatures were examined…

everything came to light.

The young man wasn’t a hopeless medical case — he was a target in a legal scheme. His uncle, working with the chief physician, had been planning to claim his inheritance while the young man was legally considered “incapable.”

But he had been conscious through it all.
Imprisoned in his body.
Unable to speak.

Until one nurse finally… looked up.

Months later, she entered his room again — this time he was sitting up, gripping support rails, training his muscles.

He looked at her and managed a tiny smile.

“I’m here,” she said gently. “You’re not alone.”

His lips trembled with the first hint of expression.

Even when a person’s voice is stolen — truth eventually finds a way to be heard.