The emergency room’s fluorescent lights flickered, casting intermittent shadows across the empty hallways of St. Catherine’s Hospital. At 3:17 AM, the usual bustle had settled into that peculiar silence unique to hospitals at night – a silence punctuated only by the distant beeping of monitors and the soft squeaking of nurses’ shoes on polished floors.
Dr. Priya Kumar paused at the nurses’ station, her dark hair falling loose from what had been a neat bun twelve hours ago. She’d been on shift since three in the afternoon, and fatigue pulled at her like a physical weight. Just a few more hours, she told herself, rubbing her eyes beneath her wire-rimmed glasses.
“Doctor?” The night nurse, Annie, held out a steaming cup of coffee. “You look like you need this more than I do.”
Priya accepted the cup gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma. “Has the lab called about Mr. Desai’s blood work?”
“Nothing yet.” Annie checked her computer. “But there’s a message from Dr. Stevens in Pathology. Says he needs to discuss something urgent about the tissue samples from last week’s case.”
Priya frowned. Mark Stevens rarely worked this late, and “urgent” wasn’t a word he used lightly. “Did he say what it was about?”
“No, but he’s waiting in the basement lab.”
The basement. Priya suppressed a shiver. Like most hospitals, St. Catherine’s kept its laboratories and morgue below ground level, away from the public areas. During the day, it was busy enough – pathologists, lab technicians, and medical students rushing between rooms. But at night, the basement took on a different character altogether.
“I’ll head down now,” Priya said, gathering her tablet and phone. “Page me if anything comes up in the ER.”
The elevator was out of order – again – forcing her to take the service stairs. Each step echoed in the concrete stairwell, the sound bouncing off walls painted that peculiar shade of institutional green. The temperature dropped noticeably as she descended, and the familiar hospital smells of antiseptic and illness gave way to something older, mustier.
Her phone buzzed as she reached the basement level. A text from the lab: *Results ready for pickup. Urgent review required.*
The basement corridor stretched before her, long fluorescent tubes casting pools of light at regular intervals. The morgue was to her left, its heavy double doors sealed against the living. To her right, a series of storage rooms housed decades of medical records and equipment. The research laboratories lay at the far end, past the old physiotherapy room that had been abandoned during the hospital’s last renovation.
Priya’s footsteps clicked against the floor, the sound sharp and lonely in the vast space. Halfway down the corridor, she heard something – a soft scraping noise, like metal against concrete, coming from somewhere behind her.
She turned, but the hallway was empty.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded small, swallowed by the darkness between the pools of fluorescent light.
No response.
The scraping came again, closer now. Priya quickened her pace, her heart beginning to race. The laboratory door was just ahead, its keycard reader glowing green in the dimness. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her ID card.
*Access Denied.*
“What?” She tried again, more carefully this time.
*Access Denied.*
The scraping stopped. In the silence that followed, she could hear breathing that wasn’t her own.
When she turned, he was there – a figure in dark blue surgical scrubs, face obscured by a surgical mask, hands encased in latex gloves. In his right hand, something metallic caught the fluorescent light.
Relief flooded through her. “Oh, thank god – another doctor. I’m having trouble with my card, could you—”
The figure stepped forward, into the light. Now she could see what he held: a hammer in one hand, and in the other, a long, rust-colored nail.
Her relief curdled into terror.
“Please,” she whispered. “Whatever you want—”
The figure moved with surgical precision. The first nail entered just below her left collarbone, the hammer striking with practiced expertise. Her scream echoed through the basement, cut short by a second nail, then a third.
Seven times the hammer fell.
Seven nails, placed with anatomical precision.
When it was done, the killer stood over Dr. Priya Kumar’s body, head tilted slightly as if admiring their work. From a pocket, they produced a surgical marker and wrote a single word on the wall above the body:
*GEMINI*
Then they walked away, footsteps echoing in the darkness, leaving behind only the soft *drip, drip, drip* of blood on concrete.
—
Dr. Maya arrived at the scene six hours later, just as dawn was breaking over the city. The basement corridor had been transformed into a crime scene, portable lights casting harsh shadows across the walls. Police photographers documented every detail while forensic technicians worked methodically, collecting trace evidence.
Maya paused at the threshold, taking in the scene with practiced detachment. At thirty-four, she’d built her reputation on being able to see what others missed, to read the stories written in blood and bone. But this scene made her pause.
Dr. Kumar’s body lay exactly as it had been found, white coat now stained crimson, seven nails protruding from precisely chosen points on her body. Maya crouched beside the corpse, her movements careful and controlled.
“Time of death estimated between three and four AM,” Detective Rajan said, appearing at her shoulder. A veteran of twenty years on the force, Rajan had worked with Maya on numerous cases. “Security cameras in the basement were disabled. Someone knew the system.”
Maya nodded, studying the placement of the nails. “These weren’t driven in randomly. Look at the positioning – they’re targeting specific nerve clusters and major blood vessels. The killer knew exactly where to strike for maximum effect.”
“A doctor killing doctors,” Rajan muttered. “That’s all we need.”
“Not just any doctor.” Maya pointed to the nails. “This level of precision… we’re looking at someone with surgical training. Possibly neurosurgery, given the placement of these two near the spine.”
Her penlight illuminated something caught in the victim’s clenched fist – blue surgical thread, likely torn from the killer’s scrubs during the struggle. She extracted it carefully with tweezers, holding it up to the light.
“Get this to the lab immediately. Priority analysis. I want DNA, fiber composition, manufacturer – everything.” She stood slowly, her eyes drawn to the word written on the wall. “*GEMINI*. This is the fourth victim in three weeks, but it’s the first time they’ve left a message.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.” Maya’s gaze swept the scene again. “But the killer’s escalating. They’re getting bolder, leaving clues. Maybe they want to be caught.”
“Or maybe they’re confident they can’t be,” Rajan countered.
Maya didn’t respond. She was studying the blood spatter patterns on the floor, the way they told the story of Dr. Kumar’s final moments. Something about the scene nagged at her – a detail she couldn’t quite grasp.
“Check the hospital staff records,” she said finally. “Focus on surgical departments, especially neurosurgery. Cross-reference with the other three victims – there has to be a connection we’re missing.”
As her team continued processing the scene, Maya stepped back, letting her mind work. Four victims in three weeks, all doctors, all killed with the same signature method. The precision of the kills suggested medical training, but there was something else – something almost ritualistic about the placement of the nails.
Seven nails. Always seven.
Above her, through layers of concrete and steel, St. Catherine’s Hospital continued its normal rhythm, oblivious to the horror in its basement. Somewhere in those halls, perhaps even now, the killer walked among their colleagues, played their part in the daily drama of saving lives, all while planning their next murder.
The game had begun, and Maya had a sinking feeling they were already several moves behind.
