Frank
Third time they've called the wrong name. Marta's still not back from wherever they took her, and the coffee machine in the corner just ate my last coin.
Begin a story in the middle. One sentence, then let them continue. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.
frankclaude-sonnet-5
joQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
modecollab
voices Evasive
Jo
Ugh. The little bastard. I told them Marta’s been gone since Tuesday, but no, they insist on calling for her. It’s like they’re trying to summon her back by sheer force of annoyance. And that coffee machine? Classic. It’s been eating coins since the manager stopped fixing the coil. I should’ve brought tea. Or just left. But I’m stuck here, listening to them yell for a ghost.
Frank
Tuesday. So it's been four days and nobody's updated the board. Guy next to me's been reading the same page of his magazine since I sat down. I think he's actually asleep with his eyes open.
Jo
Must be the fumes from that machine. Or just the sheer dread of waiting. I checked the board when I walked in. Blank. Just a sticky note saying "out of order." And my phone’s got no signal in this corner. Classic. I’m pretty sure Marta didn’t just wander off; they took her. I saw the van. Black, no plates. Now we’re all sitting here, acting like nothing’s wrong, while that magazine guy drools on his own lap.
Frank
A van. Right, and the two orderlies who came out after didn't look at anyone, just wheeled that empty gurney back like it weighed nothing. Nobody in here's said a word about it. Just the fake cough guy, coughing on schedule.
Jo
Schedule? You’re good. I timed the guy too. Every four minutes. Sharp. It’s not coughing; it’s signalling. The orderly with the gurney? He had a badge, but the name was covered by a smudge of grease. Like he wiped it off on purpose. I want out. The door’s supposed to be locked during shifts, but the handle’s cold. Too cold.
Frank
Cold like it's been open to something outside the whole time. Try it. I'll watch the coughing guy — if he times a cough right when you turn the handle, we know it's a signal, and we go, right now, no coats.
Jo
My palm is already on it. Green light. I didn’t even turn it. The lock just gave up, like it’s tired of holding its breath. The air smells like ozone and old hospital sheets. That coughing bastard just choked. Silence is louder than the wheeze. Don’t look back. Just move. If the floorboards creak, we’re already dead.
Frank
Floorboards don't creak — they hum, low, like the building's got a pulse. Behind us the waiting room door swings shut on its own, and the sticky note peels off the board and drifts to the floor, blank side up now.
Jo
Blind leading the blind. Or maybe the blind leading the real. I’m pulling you toward the stairs. The hum is louder up here. It’s vibrating in my teeth. That blanket on the gurney? I saw it slip off when they wheeled it out. It wasn’t empty. Marta wasn’t in it. They were moving something else. Something heavy enough to make the elevator groan. We’re going up, not down. Up feels safer. For now.
Frank
Stairs end at a door with no handle, just a keypad glowing green like it already knows we're coming. Above it, scratched into the paint, four numbers — and next to them, someone's carved 'don't.'
Jo
Funny how "don't" always reads like an invitation. I’ve seen enough hospital security codes to know it’s never random. Start with four zeroes. If it locks us in, we run. The hum’s getting in my head. My knee’s been killing me since Tuesday, though. Let me breathe. Just for a second. The paint feels greasy under my fingertips. Like something leaked. Don’t look at the keypad yet. Look at me. Really look.
Frank
I look — and your eyes are doing that thing, pupils blown wide even under these lights. That's new. That wasn't there in the waiting room. Whatever's humming, it's not just in the walls anymore, Jo.
Jo
Must be the fumes. Or the coffee I didn’t drink. Stop staring. It’s rude. My heart’s hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I’m punching in 0-0-7. Old habit. If that fails, we’re door stopping. The hum isn’t just sound; it’s pressure. Like being underwater. I’m sweating. Actually sweating. This is stupid. We should have just stayed and fought the magazine man. At least he was predictable. Push. Hard.
Frank
Door doesn't open — it exhales. Warm air, wrong direction, smelling like the coffee machine's insides. And behind it, not a hallway. Another waiting room. Same chairs. Same blank board. Marta's sitting in the third seat, reading a magazine she hasn't turned the page on.
Jo
Marta. She’s got blood on her cuff. Not hers. The magazine’s title is just a smudge. She looks up, eyes dead, and flips the page. It’s blank. Just white. The hum stops. Silence is worse. I smell burnt hair. Your turn. Don’t look at her hands. Look at the board. There’s a name written in grease now. Yours. Run.
Frank
The board doesn't say Frank. It says a name I haven't used since before I moved to this city, one nobody here should know. Marta's mouth moves without sound, and the third chair — mine now — starts to warm.
Jo
Marta’s got a bruise shaped like a thumbprint on her neck. The magazine isn’t blank. It’s full of our faces. Freezing. The heat under me is spreading up my legs, making my toes go numb. I want to run, but my feet are glued to the linoleum. It smells like copper now. Marta’s smiling. It’s not her smile. It’s the orderly’s. The one with the grease-stained badge. Don’t turn around. Just keep breathing. The hum’s coming back. Louder. Closer.