I asked the administrator where the chief physician’s office was – most of the corridors and passages were blocked, emergency crews were leading people out of the hospital, and security forces had cordoned off two wings – and when she heard my last name, the young woman at the counter said they were expecting me. She pointed me in the right direction and suggested I hurry, glancing nervously at the uniformed officers. I didn’t hesitate; I wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible and made my way to the chief physician’s office. Fortunately, his office had been temporarily moved to the first floor of this wing – was it some kind of divine blessing?

The medical staff was in a nervous, restless state. The faces of many showed the aimlessness of running back and forth down the corridor, as if trying to shake off their anxiety, to distract themselves, but instead they only pushed themselves deeper into the traps set by the tension gripping the hospital. The strain hung in the air like a dense shroud, pressing down on my chest. For a brief moment, a chill ran down my spine, and fear tensed my nerves, making them vulnerable to a cruel game. I felt my fingers grow cold, noticed myself glancing around and listening more intently – was that gunfire echoing somewhere in the distance? Were the screams real, or was it the acoustics of the space and the pounding of my heart playing tricks on my perception? But the overall confusion only urged me to keep moving forward.

The steadfast conviction that the rumors were not just tales and that the infection from the North had truly reached here, to °22-1-20-21-14, strengthened in my mind.

The gathering of security forces behind the hospital, the military vehicles in the city, the blocked roads and neighborhoods – there could be no doubt left. The fact that we had managed to get in was truly a miracle. It felt as if fate itself had intervened.

The corridor seemed endless. A series of closed doors, staircases, and passageways… When the right office finally came into view, I exhaled quietly, releasing the tension. I knocked. Without waiting for an answer, I opened the door and took a cautious step inside.

A man, around forty years old, was putting papers into a small safe beside his desk.

“May I?” I whispered as I gently closed the door behind me. The doctor turned around, adjusting his square glasses in their neat frame and quickly shutting the safe's door. “Dr. Givori, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Good morning,” He nodded, tossing the key onto the desk and settling into a tall leather chair. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Stephanie Shayer. An independent journalist, correspondent, and simply an interested party.” I gracefully took one of my most recent business cards from my pocket and stepped forward to hand it to him. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“I was given a different description of you…” He muttered to himself, studying the card closely and thinking intently about something in parallel. “But it doesn’t matter.” He carelessly flicked the card aside and nodded to the chair across from him. As I examined the office, my attention was caught by Givori’s hand: his palm was bandaged, the cloth already soaked with blood.

“Thank you,” I said, settling into the chair under the man’s intense gaze. I looked straight into his eyes.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Snippets of ordinary conversation drifted in from the street through the open window.

“Medical ethics prevent me from disclosing my patients' secrets,” Givori said curtly. “I trust you’re aware of that.”