"They stabbed her until the bed stopped shaking," the nurse shouted. "Get the restraint carts!" a second nurse barked, voice cracking. "Keep that thing off me!" a man in patches of hospital linen clawed at the air. His voice cut through the ward like a drill. "Stop screaming!" another nurse snapped. "Someone call security now!" I was a body on a bed, mouth open, eyes blank. Machines blinked and sighed. Blood had dried into lines that no one bothered to hide. "Her gown—someone cut it," the first nurse hissed. "Why is she naked? Why did we miss this?" "Shift report said external trauma," a third nurse said. "Floor two—late discharge. Who signed her out?" Footsteps thundered. The ward filled with voices, orders, curses. A phone on a bedside table played a single looped clip at low volume: champagne popping, a laugh, a woman's whispered name. The clip was far from here, but it landed on my skin like a second wound. "Turn that off," a patient demanded. "I can't—" "The family's PR sent footage," the nurse said, checking the phone. "Birthday gala. Look—" A woman's laugh filled the space from the tiny speaker, then silence. The nurses glanced at each other. One whispered, "Aurelie Sorensen." Someone cursed. "Of course. The golden daughter." A nurse dropped to a chair and pressed two fingers against her temple. "Call the coroner. Lock the door. Log every—" "You can't just log it," a man in security barked