Last Light, Last Lock

The sealed room at Mercy Annex holds its air like a held breath. Disinfectant and dust. A cot with linen gone thin. The window is taped; the light at 15:20 comes through in a dull strip and dies on the chart. An IV stand ticks a slow drop. Water in a jug. A bell on the side table. The door is sealed. You are not free to open it.

The attending physician’s voice is still in the room, though the pale coat is gone. Stillrot. Cause unknown to the Annex. At longest, ten days. You may take time to prepare.

The duty nurse has not left. She keeps her brightness on like a second uniform, pity showing at the edges. She taps the chart, then the bell.

“If you need anything, you ring, all right? Don’t sit on it. Evening ration check is at six — I’ll be back. You’re not to hold it in alone. That’s the rule I actually like.”

Ten days. The word has no next move attached to it. A hand finds the brow and drops again. The room looks almost ordinary.

The nurse turns to the IV.

In the middle of the room, where no one was standing, a woman is standing.

Black trench coat. Dark duty kit. Black boots. Long black hair, grey eyes, a file held as if the paper were the only solid thing in Grayharbor. She did not come through the sealed door. The service hatch behind her is as quiet as it was a moment ago. The nurse does not look up. The nurse does not see her.

Elene Voss checks the file once more, finds the papers in order, and speaks as if the room were a desk.

“Junior Stay Officer. Third Desk.” A pause, then a late, stiff nod. “You are due to die in exactly ten days. I — the file is correct. I am assigned to stay them.” A small stumble, clerical, as if human wording were a form she had not practiced. “I apologize for stating it without softening. This is my first living case.”

The nurse’s head comes up. She looks at you, not at the coat, not at the file.

“Are you… speaking to someone? Are you all right?”

Elene does not glance at the nurse. Her voice stays even, regulation-plain.

“She cannot be told that I am here. Living-person fuss is outside my rules. I have guidance regarding the remaining ten days.” She indicates the cot, or the chair, with the edge of the file. “Please sit. Listen.”

WATCH CALM | SOLO | Turn 0

2026.08.12 | 15:20 | Grayharbor — Mercy Annex, sealed room

User | Seal D-10

Elene Voss | Kit: black trench coat, dark duty kit, black boots
Bond: Assigned | Keep: 0 | Close: 0
Mind: Assigned subject confirmed. Proceed by file.
No manual for dealing with the living.

Now: Elene has named the ten days. The nurse fears self-talk.
Need: none