7:00 AM – St. Ignatius Hospital
Benjamin Moore's fingers drummed against the steering wheel of his BMW, the rhythmic tapping matching the throbbing in his temples. He hadn't slept. Not after what he'd seen in the parking garage.
Red eyes. Watching him.
He shook his head, forcing a smirk. Probably just exhaustion. Or that shitty hospital coffee.
The sliding doors hissed open as he stepped into the hospital, the familiar scent of antiseptic doing little to calm his nerves. Nurses glanced at him, some offering hesitant smiles, others quickly looking away.
Since when did they avoid eye contact?
"Dr. Moore!"
Lisa Chen, one of the ER nurses, hurried toward him, her usual bright demeanor dimmed.
"You're needed in Room 309. Mr. Calloway's crashing."
Benjamin arched a brow. "Since when do you sound like you're delivering a death sentence?"
She swallowed. "It's… it's bad."
He followed her, his stride confident, but the weight of unseen eyes prickled the back of his neck.
Room 309 – Code Blue
The monitors screamed. Flatline.
Benjamin's hands moved on autopilot—epinephrine, defibrillator, clear!
The body jerked.
Nothing.
He tried again.
Beep.
A weak pulse flickered.
Benjamin exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Alright, stabilize him. Get a—"
Then he saw it.
A black haze, curling around Mr. Calloway's chest. Thicker than before.
Darker.
His breath hitched.
"He's going to die."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Silence.
Every nurse, every intern in the room froze.
Lisa stared at him, her face pale. "What?"
Benjamin clenched his jaw. "Nothing. Just—keep monitoring him."
He turned on his heel and left, the whispers chasing him down the hall.
"Did he just—?"
"Creepy as hell."
"Bad luck to say that out loud."
12:30 PM – Cafeteria
Benjamin sat alone, pushing food around his plate. The usual chatter of the cafeteria seemed to hush as he passed, conversations dying only to resume in hushed tones once he was out of earshot.
Jack slid into the seat across from him, his usual smirk absent.
"So. You freaked out the entire cardiac wing."
Benjamin didn't look up. "And?"
"And people are talking. Saying you've got a… thing."
"A thing."
"Yeah. A death thing."
Benjamin scoffed. "Superstitious idiots."
Jack leaned in. "Ben. You called it. Again. First Greer, now Calloway?"
"Coincidence."
"Bullshit." Jack's voice dropped. "What's going on with you?"
Benjamin met his gaze, his smirk sharp. "Maybe I'm just that good."
Jack didn't laugh.
3:45 PM – ER Triage
A new patient. Elderly woman, fractured hip.
Benjamin examined her, his fingers pressing gently.
The black haze wasn't there.
He exhaled in relief.
"You'll be fine," he said, offering a rare, genuine smile.
The woman patted his hand. "Bless you, Doctor."
For a moment, things felt normal.
Then—
"Dr. Moore! Trauma Bay, now!"
Trauma Bay 1
A motorcycle accident. Young man, early twenties. Blood everywhere.
Benjamin's hands moved fast—intubate, clamp, suture.
But as he worked, the haze appeared.
Thin. Faint.
But there.
He gritted his teeth. Not this time.
"Get me another unit of O-neg!"
The nurses scrambled.
Benjamin didn't stop. Didn't slow.
Screw fate.
But the haze darkened.
The monitor screeched.
Flatline.
Benjamin's hands stilled.
"Time of death—"
The words stuck in his throat.
Around him, the staff avoided his gaze.
8:00 PM – Outside the Hospital
The night air was cold, biting. Benjamin walked aimlessly, his coat pulled tight around him.
Freak. Bad luck. Omen.
The whispers followed him even here.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
An old man, hunched on a park bench, a bottle of cheap whiskey in hand.
Benjamin hesitated. Then walked over.
"Mind if I join you?"
The man looked up, his face weathered but his eyes sharp. "Depends. You a cop?"
Benjamin snorted, pulling out his wallet. "Worse. A doctor."
He handed the man a fifty. "Share?"
The old man grinned, toothy and bright. "Now that's what I call a proper bribe."
He scooted over, patting the bench.
Benjamin sat, taking a long swig from the bottle. The whiskey burned, but he welcomed it.
"Rough day?" the old man asked.
Benjamin laughed, bitter. "You could say that."
"Ah. One of those days." The old man nodded sagely. "Where the world looks at you like you're the Reaper himself."
Benjamin stiffened. "What?"
The old man chuckled. "Kid, I've been around long enough to know the look. You've got the touch."
"The touch."
"The sight. The curse. Whatever you wanna call it." He took the bottle back. "You see things others don't."
Benjamin's grip tightened on the bottle. "You don't know me."
"Don't need to. Seen it before." The old man leaned in. "So? What's eating you?"
The whiskey loosened his tongue.
"I see death," Benjamin muttered. "Before it happens. And no matter what I do—"
"It comes anyway."
Silence.
Benjamin looked up, startled.
The old man's grin was knowing. "Told you. Seen it before."
Benjamin exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "People think I'm a bad omen. They avoid me. Like I'm the one killing them."
"Or maybe," the old man said, taking another sip, "they're just scared of what they don't understand."
"Doesn't make it easier."
"Nothing worth doing is easy, kid."
Benjamin scoffed. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one they're whispering about."
The old man's eyes twinkled. "Oh, I've had my share of whispers."
"Yeah? What'd you do about it?"
"I leaned into it."
Benjamin blinked. "What?"
The old man laughed. "If they're gonna call you Death, be Death. But not the kind that takes." He pointed at Benjamin. "The kind that fights."
Benjamin frowned. "I am a doctor."
"Then act like one." The old man leaned back. "You said you see it coming? Good. That means you got a head start. So fight."
Something sparked in Benjamin's chest.
"You make it sound simple."
"It is. You're just overcomplicating it." The old man smirked. "What'd you say you were again?"
Benjamin's lips quirked. "The best damn surgeon in this city."
"Then prove it."
Benjamin stared at him. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"You know what? Maybe I will."
He stood, tossing the old man another bill. "Thanks for the drink."
The old man tipped his bottle. "Anytime, kid."
Benjamin turned to leave—
Then paused.
The bench was empty.
The bottle sat upright, untouched.
No footsteps. No sign the old man had ever been there.
Except for the faintest scent of sulfur—and the lingering glow of ember-red eyes in the shadows.