PART 3 — The forbidden archive
They put me outside by the rear entrance, in the cold rain. The guards left me behind with the threat that the slightest attempt to return would result in immediate dismissal and legal charges. But they failed to understand something fundamental: my job had never been my life; it was merely my cover to stay inside. I didn't walk home. I sought shelter under the awning of the old parking garage opposite the hospital.
There, I took the tag and the key out of my pocket. In the dim light of the streetlamp, I examined the key more closely. It was an old-fashioned cylinder key, with an engraved number: B-412 . Where did that number belong? Not to the basement cabinet, because that had opened with the mechanical lock. This was a key for a specific door. I pondered. For eighteen years, I had cleaned every corner, every hallway, every room, and every broom closet in this hospital.
There was not a single square meter I hadn't been to—except one. The old archive in the sub-basement, which seemed to have been sealed since the hospital was built, locked with a double padlock and bearing an official warning from the municipality. Everyone thought it contained only old medical records from the 1980s. But what if it didn't? What if that was where Thomas did his real work?
At midnight, I slipped back inside through the loading dock. Thanks to my eighteen years of service, I knew all the blind spots of the security cameras. Besides, the systems were still unstable from the power outage earlier in the evening; the monitors flickered green every now and then. I swallowed my fear and descended the concrete stairs, deeper than the regular basement, to the forgotten level.
The air down here smelled musty, like old paper and iron. At the end of a pitch-black corridor stood the heavy steel door of the archive. I held my breath. There was indeed a modern combination lock on it, but beside it was an old-fashioned keyhole hidden under a thick layer of dust. With trembling hands, I inserted key B-412 into the hole. It fit.
With a soft click, the mechanism turned. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, holding my flashlight steady in front of me. What the light revealed made my blood run cold: the walls were covered with newspaper clippings, X-rays, and diagrams. And in the center of the room sat a desk, with a folder lying open upon it. At the top of the page was my own name.
