The girl was bleeding.
The girl was bleeding.
Not on the bed. Not in the hallway.
She was bleeding from her soul — and still smiling like nothing was wrong.
Dr. Kamsi Onuoha didn't need a scan to see it.
Room 405. That was her case today. Patient: Adaora Mordi. Diagnosis: Recurrent miscarriages — unclear cause.
Another vague file. Another pretty lie wrapped in silk and powder.
Kamsi pushed the door open.
Inside sat a woman who looked more ready for brunch than a blood test. Her robe whispered wealth. Her face was flawless. But what caught Kamsi's attention wasn't the woman — it was the man by her side.
He stood slowly, eyes sunken from too many sleepless nights.
"I'm Dr. Kamsi," she said, locking eyes with the patient. "I'll be handling your case."
Adaora's voice was light. "You're the new specialist."
Kamsi turned to the man.
"And you are...?"
"Chuka," he said. "Her husband."
She nodded, but something in Adaora's expression flickered. Possessive? Guarded? Kamsi wasn't sure — but her gut always paid attention.
She pulled up the patient's chart and sat at the edge of the nearby desk.
"How long have you been trying to conceive, Adaora?"
Adaora tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Five years. We got pregnant twice in the first two years. After that... nothing that stayed."
"How far along were you in each loss?"
"First was nine weeks. Second was ten. Both times, no heartbeat."
Kamsi scribbled in the notes. "Any procedures done after? D&C? Ultrasound evaluations? Hormonal panels?"
Adaora shrugged. "I've done it all. One doctor said my uterus was tilted. Another said I was just unlucky."
Chuka's fingers curled into his lap, his silence growing louder.
"What about stress? Diet? Any other medical conditions?"
Adaora leaned back against the pillows. "I run a salon. Stress is normal. I eat well. I take supplements."
Her answers were too clean. Too rehearsed. Like she'd said them a hundred times.
Kamsi looked at Chuka. "Would you like to add anything?"
He blinked. Hesitated. "Sometimes... she feels symptoms. Even when the tests say otherwise."
Adaora snapped, "I know my body, Chuka."
Kamsi raised a brow, masking her reaction. She shifted her tone. "We'll start from scratch. Run new labs. New scans."
"Again?" Adaora sighed. "I've done everything."
"Yes," Kamsi said gently. "You came for a fresh start. Let's begin there."
When Kamsi stepped out, she met a wall of silence in the hallway.
Then a voice broke it.
"You're wasting your time with that one."
Kamsi turned. Dr. Alex Edeh.
The hospital's unofficial spy. Annoying. Arrogant. But rarely wrong.
"You know her?" she asked.
He folded his arms. "Adaora Mordi? That woman's name comes with complications. If you're smart, you'll hand that file back."
"I don't back down from a case," Kamsi replied.
"No," Alex said. "But you carry your own secrets. Be careful. So does she."
Later that evening, Kamsi sat in the hospital records room, flipping through archived reports. Adaora had no previous case file in their system. No bloodwork. No scans. Just a referral letter from a doctor in Abuja.
But the letter was unsigned.
She narrowed her eyes. That wasn't just careless. It was deliberate.
She copied the referral into her notebook, then shut the file.
As she left the records room, her footsteps echoed in the corridor. She paused when she passed the on-call lounge. A few nurses were seated inside, gossiping over steaming cups of tea.
"She's back," one whispered.
Kamsi slowed, listening.
"Which one?"
"That Abuja woman. Room 405. Same drama as two years ago."
Kamsi stepped back quickly and disappeared down another hall before they could see her.
That night, Kamsi walked into her apartment and dropped her bag like dead weight. The silence was a luxury she didn't deserve. She had left her last job because of a mistake she still couldn't name out loud. And yet, here she was — starting to feel the same cold coil of trouble again.
She sat in the kitchen with her tea untouched. A photo frame on the table caught her eye. A younger version of her, in scrubs, smiling beside a patient. That patient had died. Not because of negligence — but because of trust. A patient who had lied, and she had believed.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She answered.
No voice.
Just a whisper.
"Don't trust her."
The line went dead.
Kamsi stared at the wall, heart drumming. She replayed the voice in her head, the way it dropped into silence like it had been swallowed by the dark.
Who was watching?
And how did they know she'd taken that case?
The next morning, Kamsi arrived earlier than usual. Her heels clicked with purpose across the corridor floor as she entered the diagnostics lab. She wanted to catch the test results before they were filed or 'misplaced'.
Inside, the lab technician Nnenna gave her a nervous smile. Too nervous.
"Morning, Doctor. You're here early."
"I need Adaora Mordi's blood panel. Hormones, CBC, beta-hCG — everything."
Nnenna hesitated. "We just processed those yesterday... I think the consultant said he would review them first."
"Who? Dr. Edeh?"
Nnenna nodded slowly.
Kamsi tapped her pen against the counter. "Do you have the raw data?"
Nnenna pulled out a file from the side tray and handed it to her. Kamsi flipped it open, and within seconds, her breath caught.
The beta-hCG levels were low. Extremely low. Not consistent with a viable pregnancy.
Yet Adaora claimed she was six weeks in.
She flipped to the hormone panel — estrogen and progesterone levels were inconsistent too. Almost like someone had tampered with them.
"Were these reprinted?" she asked.
Nnenna's eyes darted. "I… I'm not sure. Maybe the system glitched."
Kamsi didn't believe her.
She tucked the file under her arm and walked straight to her office, locking the door behind her. She scanned the results again. Something was being covered up. Either Adaora was lying, or someone else was helping her lie.
Before she could pick up her phone, it buzzed again.
Same unknown number.
A text this time:
She lied about everything. Check the scan room. Drawer 3.
Kamsi's skin prickled.
She grabbed her coat.
She was going to the scan room.
And this time, she wasn't walking out without answers.
As she stepped into the dimly lit scan room, she paused. The machines were powered down, the silence so thick it buzzed. She moved to the cabinet, heart thudding with each step. Drawer 1. Empty. Drawer 2. Syringes and gloves.
Drawer 3.
She pulled it open.
There, buried under a stack of disposable gowns, was a black envelope. No label. No seal. Just a faint red stain on one corner.
She opened it carefully. Inside — printouts. Ultrasound images. Scans dated months ago. But none of the names matched Adaora's.
Until the last one.
A scan labeled "Mordi A."
But the image wasn't of a uterus.
It was a pelvic scan — showing clear signs of fibroids, scarring, and a previous surgical stitch. At the bottom, scrawled in small, hurried handwriting:
"Psych consult needed. Delusional pregnancy suspected."
Kamsi's breath caught.
Someone had flagged it before.
And someone had buried it.
She stuffed the envelope into her bag and left the room quickly.
Back in her office, she locked the door, double-checked the blinds. She couldn't afford another mistake — not after Lagos.
She opened her notebook and wrote a single line across the page:
"What happens when the patient isn't sick — but wants to be?"
Just then, a knock interrupted her scribble.
She froze.
"Doctor Kamsi?" It was one of the junior nurses. "There's someone asking to see you. Urgently."
Kamsi stood. "Who?"
"He wouldn't give a name. Said to tell you — 'Room 405. Now.'"
Her pulse skipped. That wasn't a request. It was a warning.
She tucked the notebook into her drawer and headed for Room 405, her pace measured, heartbeat anything but. Whatever was behind that door now… it wasn't just medical.
It was personal.
And it had just begun.
Kamsi reached the door and paused. Her fingers hovered over the handle. The hallway was unusually quiet, and every instinct in her body screamed caution. She took a deep breath and pushed it open.
Inside, Adaora sat alone. No Chuka. No nurse.
"Where's your husband?" Kamsi asked.
Adaora's lips curled into a cold smile. "He stepped out. I asked him to."
Kamsi stepped closer, her voice firm. "You sent for me. Why?"
Adaora tapped her manicured fingers against the tray beside her. "Because you're different. You're not afraid of truth. Even when it's ugly."
Kamsi crossed her arms. "Then let's start with the truth. About your last miscarriage. About the missing reports. About the scan."
Adaora tilted her head. "What if I told you I've never been pregnant? Not once. Not truly."
Kamsi blinked. "Then why all this?"
"Because," Adaora said, her voice soft but shaking, "sometimes, a lie is the only thing that feels real."
Silence.
"My mother had twins at 39," Adaora continued. "My sister has three kids. I have none. Every month I bleed, and every month it feels like something is being taken from me. So I started pretending it was a baby. Just to feel... worth something."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't wipe them.
"Chuka stayed as long as he could. Then he started sleeping on the couch. Now he barely looks at me."
Kamsi swallowed. "Why request me by name?"
Adaora looked up, her voice cracking. "Because I read what happened to you. The girl who died. The one you trusted. I thought... maybe you'd understand."
Kamsi felt the air shift. She took a small step back, her chest tight.
"You dug through my past?"
Adaora nodded. "Desperation makes people do strange things."
Kamsi stared at her for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down.
A broken woman. A grieving husband. And a file full of lies that masked a cry for help.
Kamsi exhaled slowly. "I'll schedule a psych evaluation. But it's your choice to take it. I won't force you."
Adaora's eyes glistened. "And if I do?"
"Then we'll start the real treatment. The one that heals the heart, not just the womb."
As Kamsi left the room, her hands trembled.
This case wasn't just a medical puzzle.
It was a mirror.
And she wasn't sure she was ready for what it showed.