Night fell heavily on the hospital. Gabriel Ibarra slept under light sedation. The monitor showed a stable rhythm. Steady breathing. Blood pressure within normal parameters. The room was dimly lit. In the hallway, the night shift was beginning to reorganize. Nurses exchanged reports. A security guard yawned by the elevator.

  A figure in scrubs walked confidently. Surgical cap. Mask. ID badge visible.

  No one stopped him.

  He entered room 312 with calm movements, like someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

  He closed the door silently.

  Gabriel slept.

  The figure quickly checked the monitor. Stable rhythm.

  He looked at the IV tubing connected to the catheter. He noted the label on the IV fluid.

  He took a small syringe from his pocket.

  Without haste.

  He injected the contents directly into the port of the tubing.

  Transparent. Undetectable to the naked eye.

  The fluid slowly trickled into his bloodstream.

  The doctor adjusted the drip rate just one notch higher.

  Then he left.

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  The door closed softly again.

  On the monitor, the rhythm began to fluctuate.

  First faint.

  Then erratic.

  A single beep.

  Then another.

  At the nurses' station, a red light flashed.

  "Room 312," a nurse called.

  They rushed over.

  Gabriel began to convulse slightly. His blood pressure dropped in seconds.

  "Call Code Blue!"

  The medics arrived quickly. Masks, defibrillator, orders crossed.

  "No pulse!"

  "Charge to 200!"

  His body bucked with the shock.

  Nothing.

  "Again!"

  The monitor showed an unstable line… then dropped again.

  Compressions.

  Medications.

  Minutes that dragged on.

  A doctor glanced at his watch.

  "Time of arrest: nine minutes."

  They tried once more.

  Silence.

  The straight line remained.

  The lead physician took a deep breath.

  "Time of death: 10:47 PM."

  The nurse lowered her gaze.

  "Notify administration."

  In the hallway, the figure in uniform was already walking away at a normal pace. He removed his gloves in the bathroom in the east wing and left them in the biohazard waste container.

  He took off his mask.

  An ordinary face. Forgettable.

  He changed his jacket for a dark one.

  He left through the hospital's side door.

  Night swallowed him up without a word.

  Minutes later, at the police station, Novak's phone vibrated.

  He answered.

  He listened.

  He didn't say anything for several seconds.

  Volkov watched him from the desk.

  "Tell me," he finally said.

  Novak slowly lowered the phone.

  "Cardiac arrest. Unresponsive to CPR."

  Silence.

  Volkov closed his eyes for a moment.

  "Time."

  "10:47 PM."

  Volkov looked at the clock on the wall.

  Too fast.

  “They didn’t move him,” Novak murmured.

  Volkov shook his head.

  “They didn’t need to move him.”

  The board full of names seemed heavier now.

  Another one.

  Another one who “didn’t exist.”

  But this time, Gabriel had spoken.

  And that changed something.

  Volkov grabbed his coat without a word.

  Novak looked at him.

  “To the hospital?”

  Volkov answered in a low, firm voice:

  “No.”

  He stopped in the doorway.

  “To find out who went into that room.”

  Because someone had made a mistake.

  And Volkov wasn’t going to let it go.