The fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor buzzed faintly, like a tired whisper nobody had the energy to fix. Dr. Nurain adjusted her lanyard for the fifth time in two minutes. Her hands were fidgeting and her stethoscope bounced against her chest as she paced in front of the nurse's station like a caffeine-deprived predator.
"Ma'am, if you keep wearing a hole into the floor, I'm going to charge you for renovations," Nurse Bimbo said without looking up from her paperwork. She'd developed immunity to Nurain's pacing after months of residency.
"It's not that," Nurain replied, though it absolutely was that. Her brain had become a blender of thoughts since that night's bizarre incident. Omar's sudden appearance, the strange fainting spell, and—ugh—the mystery call. None of it made sense. It was as if her life had hit 'shuffle' and decided to play the most chaotic tracks first.
"Then sit. Or better still, sleep. Like normal humans."
Nurain scoffed. "Sleep is for people not being stalked by their own memories."
Bimbo arched an eyebrow. "And strange men with blue eyes?"
"Don't start."
A tap on the glass door caught her attention. Ali.
Great. Just what she needed—another man making things unnecessarily complicated.
He tiptoed in like a repentant child who'd broken mom's favorite mug. In his hands was a lunch box wrapped in a napkin that said, Peace Offering.
"Hi Doc," he smiled sheepishly, holding it out like a guilty puppy offering a slobbery sock.
"I should report you to the ethics committee," she said, arms folded.
"I know, I know. But hear me out—he threatened to expose my secret shakshuka recipe if I didn't give him your number. And you know that recipe has been passed down from my grandmother's Turkish cousin!"
Nurain stared at him.
He grinned wider. "Also… he said you had a 'resilient aura.' Whatever that means."
She sighed, taking the box. It smelled like lamb stew and manipulation.
"Apology lunch accepted. But don't think you're forgiven. Yet."
Before he could respond, her pager buzzed. CODE ORANGE—ER. That was not good.
She sprinted down the hallway, ignoring Bimbo's "told-you-so" smirk. The ER was already chaotic, interns darting around like caffeinated squirrels.
"Gunshot wound," Dr. Ahmed briefed her quickly. "Male, late twenties. Bleeding controlled but unconscious. No ID. Witness says he collapsed outside the mosque."
They wheeled him in. Nurain took one look and her breath caught in her throat.
Blue eyes. Round glasses.
Omar.
"What the—"
Her hand instinctively reached for his pulse. Weak. Thready. He was alive, but barely.
She snapped into professional mode. "Two liters O-negative stat. Notify surgery. And somebody get a tox screen—now."
The nurses moved quickly. She stared at his face as the gurney rolled away. This wasn't a random incident. There were too many coincidences piling on like dirty laundry.
---
Hours later, she sat at her desk reviewing his tox screen. Clean. No alcohol, no drugs, nothing foreign.
His name had finally popped up—Omar El-Fadil. Sudanese-British. Tech consultant. She dug deeper through hospital records, even called a friend in immigration. His visa showed he entered Nigeria just two weeks ago.
A knock on her door made her jump.
"Doctor, he's awake."
She didn't know what to feel—relief or dread. She entered Room 114 to find him propped up on pillows, face pale, lips dry, and eyes... still annoyingly blue.
"Hi," he croaked.
Imani crossed her arms. "Care to explain why you're always showing up half-dead?"
He tried to smile but winced instead. "Occupational hazard."
"Which is?"
"I find people. That's what I do."
She squinted at him. "Find people? Like a stalker?"
He chuckled weakly. "No. Like someone who traces missing persons. I was hired to find you, actually."
Silence. Deafening.
"I don't understand."
He nodded slowly. "I didn't either, at first. But someone—an anonymous client—sent me to track a certain Imani Nurain. Said she'd gone off radar. Paid well. Gave very little detail."
Her head throbbed. "And you didn't think to verify who I was? You just... stalked me with lamb stew and psychology books?"
Omar's eyes were sincere. "I didn't expect to like you."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I thought you'd be some shady political defector or a criminal hiding out in scrubs. Instead, you're... you."
She didn't know whether to slap him or call security.
"Who sent you?" she asked.
"I don't know. They used crypto. Disguised IP. The usual spy movie nonsense. But—" he paused—"the more I watched you, the more I realized you weren't hiding. You were healing."
Imani didn't speak. A heavy silence filled the air.
"And then you collapsed," he continued. "Your file says 'panic-induced vasovagal syncope.' That doesn't happen randomly. Something scared you."
Imani stood suddenly. "You need to rest. You've lost blood and possibly your mind."
She stormed out.
But his words clung to her like smoke.
Healing. Hiding. Both could be true.
---
The next day brought more strange events. A parcel arrived for Nurain with no return address. Inside was a USB stick and a note:
Play this in private. Your past is overdue.
Against every fiber of common sense, she plugged it into her personal laptop.
The screen flickered. A video played. Blurry footage from what looked like a military base. Her father. Alive. Speaking into a camera.
"Imani, if you're seeing this, I didn't make it. But I had to do what was right. There are people who think they've erased me, but the truth is buried in Abuja. You'll know what to do when the time comes."
She froze.
He died five years ago.
Didn't he?
The video ended abruptly. No time stamp. No metadata. Just… gone.
Nurain stared at the screen for minutes before closing the laptop. Her heart thundered in her chest. The past she'd worked so hard to outrun had finally caught up. And it brought receipts.
---
She found herself walking again—unconsciously—to the hospital garden. A quiet place with uneven benches and unspoken secrets. She sat, hands trembling.
A voice broke her trance.
"You got the package too?"
She turned.
Omar.
She frowned. "What are you talking about?"
He held up a phone, showing a paused frame. Her father's video.
"They sent it to both of us," he said.
That's when it clicked.
Whoever sent it… wanted them to work together.
Omar sat beside her, not too close, not too far. "He trusted you, obviously. I was just the delivery boy."
"I can't trust you," she replied flatly.
"You don't have to. But you might want to start asking yourself why someone would fake a death… and why they'd leave clues for a daughter who wasn't supposed to be a part of it."
Imani's head spun. "He was a peacekeeper. A diplomat. Not a spy."
Omar handed her a second note. Folded in quarters. Old. Smelled like regret.
"Double Blind. Level 5. Safehouse 27."
"What the hell does that mean?"
Omar smiled. "It means this story just got a sequel."
Before she could respond, a loud boom echoed in the distance. The hospital fire alarms blared.
Smoke.
Chaos.
They both stood, eyes wide.
"Someone's covering their tracks," Omar said grimly.
Imani turned to run—but not away this time.
Straight into the fire.
To be Continued...