The cold morning air bites as I make my way to the meeting.
My nerves are frayed, and I can’t help but think about the girl, her whispered words echoing in my mind.
What if she was trained?
What if there’s more to her story than any of us know?
Every step feels heavy, burdened with the weight of uncertainty.
The hospital looms ahead, its walls a fortress of bureaucracy and routine.
Inside, the lights are harsh, the floors too clean, too sterile.
People brush past, absorbed in their own worlds, oblivious to the stories unfolding just outside these walls.
In the meeting room, I sit facing a panel of administrators.
Their expressions are unreadable, masks of professionalism.
“We need to discuss the incident last night,” I begin, my voice steady but my heart racing.
“There’s a girl who’s been trying to help in ways most wouldn’t notice.”
They exchange glances, the air thick with skepticism.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” one of them asks, a note of impatience in his voice.
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