Every night, the nurse heard screams coming from Ward Number Seven.

They were never loud. Never desperate enough to draw attention. They were muted, strangled, as if someone was forcing themselves not to be heard. And that was what made them so terrifying.

The sounds always came at the same time—late evening, when the corridors emptied, when the lights dimmed, when the hospital settled into its uneasy nighttime silence.

One night, the nurse stopped in the middle of the hallway, her cleaning bucket still in her hand. She stood completely still and listened.

The hospital was already unsettling at night, but those sounds crawled under her skin. They weren’t ordinary cries of pain. They carried something else—fear.

She had worked in this hospital for many years. The job was exhausting, the pay humiliatingly low, but she endured it. She was used to the smells, the night shifts, the suffering. She had learned how to distance herself emotionally.

But Ward Seven wouldn’t let her.

There was an elderly patient there. Quiet. Clean. Always polite. She had been admitted with a broken hip and was confined to bed. She never complained. She thanked the staff for everything, even for small kindnesses. But lately, something about her had changed.

She avoided eye contact. Her hands trembled. She startled at sudden noises.

And then the visitor appeared.

He came in the evenings. Always alone. Well-dressed, confident, controlled. He introduced himself calmly as a relative. His manners were impeccable. Too impeccable.

After his visits, the old woman was never the same.

Her eyes would be red. Her lips would shake as if she were holding something back. Once, the nurse noticed a bruise on her wrist—dark fingerprints against fragile skin.

When asked about it, the woman immediately looked away and whispered that everything was fine.

The nurse mentioned her concerns to her colleagues.

“Don’t get involved,” they said. “He’s family. He has the right.”

But the crying didn’t stop.

One night, the nurse heard footsteps approaching Ward Seven. Then voices—muffled, tense. The man spoke sharply. The old woman replied softly, apologetically, like someone making excuses. Then there was a dull sound.

And a short, broken cry.

The nurse didn’t sleep that night.

By morning, she had made a decision.

If no one else wanted to see the truth, she would.

The next evening, she entered Ward Seven earlier than usual. The lights were dim. The elderly patient was asleep. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. The nurse closed the door quietly, then lowered herself to the floor and crawled under the bed.

Dust coated her palms. Cold linoleum pressed against her cheek. Above her, rusty springs creaked softly.

She was terrified.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The door opened.

He entered.

From beneath the bed, the nurse could see only his shoes and the edge of the mattress. At first, there was silence. Then his voice—low, steady, relentless.

He was explaining things to the old woman. Slowly. Repeatedly.

He said the house would be taken anyway. That she didn’t need it anymore. That she should sign the papers peacefully. He told her that resisting would only make things worse.

The old woman began to cry.

She begged him to leave her alone. She said she wouldn’t sign anything.

Then his voice changed.

The calm vanished.

He leaned closer to her and began to threaten her. He spoke about medications she “needed” to take. He said he knew how to make sure doctors didn’t notice anything unusual. He promised that if she continued to resist, her condition would deteriorate. Quickly. Painfully.

The nurse held her breath.

Then she saw him take out a syringe.

It wasn’t a hospital syringe.

It was dark. Unmarked. Wrong.

The old woman tried to pull away, weak hands trembling in resistance. He grabbed her arm and injected the substance anyway.

Her scream tore through the room.

Then her strength gave out. Her hand slid off the bed and fell limply onto the sheet.

Something inside the nurse snapped.

She burst out from under the bed, screaming at the top of her lungs. She ran to the door and flung it open, shouting for help.

Chaos exploded instantly.

Nurses rushed in. The doctor on duty followed. The man was restrained on the spot. The syringe was seized.

Security searched his bag.

Inside were documents—already prepared. Legal forms. Property transfer papers. Blank spaces waiting for a signature.

The truth came out soon after.

The injections were not treatment.

They were poison.

Slow-acting substances designed to worsen the patient’s condition while imitating natural complications. Her rapid decline had not been caused by her injury at all.

It had been engineered.

The nurse’s decision to hide under that bed saved the old woman’s life.

And exposed a man who had been quietly destroying her—under the cover of family and care.