The Other Name

C H 5 : Too Late

The doctor approached the police officers with careful, measured steps, gloved hands clasped loosely in front of her. Her eyes flicked to Nia’s pale, motionless body before returning to the officers.

“I need to speak with you about the girl you brought in,” she said, her tone a mix of disbelief and quiet pity.

The officers glanced at her briefly, their posture professional, taking notes silently but offering no commentary.

“The one who didn’t survive,” the doctor continued, her voice low. Her gaze lingered on the body for a moment.

“While I was preparing her, I noticed bruises… all over her body. Arms, legs, torso. Some old, some recent. Her clothes were soaked in blood, and underneath, the marks were unmistakable.”

A nurse stepped forward, her voice quiet but firm. “Her shoulders, ribs, thighs, bruises everywhere. Defensive positions on her arms, repeated marks on her torso suggesting restraint or continual strikes. And the head, fatal trauma. Massive bleeding, swelling. Blunt force impact. Whoever did this… it was deliberate. Fatal.”

The doctor swallowed, pressing her lips together. “The head injury alone caused her death. And the other marks… repeated abuse over time. She didn’t just fall. Someone let this happen. Someone ignored her suffering.”

The nurse nodded, her tone almost reverent. “The bruises are layered, some old, some fresh. Patterns of abuse across her arms and torso. Legs marked from repeated impact.”

The doctor took a deep breath. “I need you to find out who she is, her name, her age, where she lives. We need to contact her family. They need a chance to see her one last time. Someone needs to be able to answer questions about her, to provide context for her care, and to be present in these final moments.”

The officers wrote quietly, nodding without speaking, letting the gravity of her words settle.

The nurse added softly, almost as if speaking to Nia herself, “She suffered more than anyone should. These injuries… repeated over time. And the fatal strike… no one should endure that. Her family deserves to know. They deserve a chance to say goodbye.”

The doctor glanced once more at Nia’s still form. “She didn’t deserve this. No one does. And if there’s anyone responsible, someone must find out. But first… her family must know.”

The officers continued taking notes, professional and attentive but restrained, giving space to the doctors’ grief and disbelief. The bruises, the blood, the fatal head wound, they all told a story of cruelty and neglect.

A young life stolen, and yet, even in death, there was a chance for recognition, for a family to witness and mourn, and for some of the unanswered questions to finally be addressed.

The doctor and nurse lingered a moment longer, silently observing Nia’s body, committing the details to memory. Every mark, every injury, every trace of suffering mattered.

It was a record of what had been done to her, a guide for those who would soon stand before her, her family, her last connection to the world she had been taken from.

——

Outside the hospital, the night air was thick with the low hum of idling cars and the occasional footstep on wet pavement. Reporters clustered in small groups near the entrance, cameras perched on tripods, microphones held tight, voices murmuring in anxious excitement. The bright glare of their lights cut through the dark, illuminating the sterile hospital facade, the emergency entrance cordoned off with yellow tape.

A cluster of police officers stood near the doors, notebooks in hand, faces calm but firm. Every so often, one would glance at the reporters, their presence tolerated but strictly managed. Questions came fast, overlapping.

“Do you have any details on the girl found earlier tonight?” one reporter called, voice carrying over the hum of traffic.

“We’re told it was a teenage girl… was she attacked?”

The officer gave a brief, measured nod.

“A young girl was found in critical condition on the street. She was brought here by emergency services. That’s all we can confirm at this stage.”

Another reporter leaned forward, microphone extended. “Was this a random attack? Can you tell us her name or age?”

The officer’s eyes flicked to the nurse standing beside the entrance, silent, glancing back toward the ICU doors. “We are currently identifying the patient. Her family is being contacted. We cannot provide personal information at this time.”

A cameraman muttered under his breath about the unusual severity of the case, and murmurs spread among the reporters. Phones were raised, cameras angled, recording every subtle gesture from the officers and nurses. The questions grew sharper.

“Was this connected to organized crime?” one reporter asked, voice low but urgent. “There have been reports recently of… targeted attacks on young girls in the city. Could this be another case?”

The officers shifted slightly, hands tightening around their notebooks. Their responses remained measured. “We are investigating all possibilities. No assumptions are being made. The case is under active investigation.”

A nurse stepped slightly forward, her gloved hands folded. She didn’t speak directly, but the tension in her stance betrayed exhaustion and unease. Some reporters caught it, scribbling furiously.

They were skilled at reading more than words, they noticed the pallor in her expression, the way she glanced toward the emergency doors, the careful avoidance of direct eye contact with the cameras.

One of the older reporters, eyes sharp behind thick glasses, muttered to a colleague, “This isn’t just another street incident. A teenage girl, found bleeding on the road, suspicious death… and now silence from the hospital. Someone doesn’t want details coming out...”

The murmurs among reporters grew louder, speculation intertwining with fear. Mentions of the crime syndicate surfaced quietly at first, then more openly.

The tone shifted, from curiosity to caution. Who had the power to silence information? How deep did the violence reach? The gravity of Nia’s case became tangled with the larger threat that hovered over the city, the invisible reach of a network that preyed on the vulnerable.

Another officer, noticing the growing tension, held up a hand, stopping a reporter mid-question.

“We understand your interest, but we will provide official updates when appropriate. Please respect the process and the family’s privacy.”

Cameras clicked. Microphones adjusted. Notebooks scribbled. Even as the reporters waited, leaning forward for any hint, any slip of information, a quiet dread spread through the small crowd. The story wasn’t just about one girl, it was about how easily someone could vanish in the shadows of the city, unseen and unprotected.

As the officers and nurses moved back into the hospital, reporters jostled to maintain positions, capturing the slightest gesture, the briefest expression, framing it for the world outside.

Questions about Nia’s life, her identity, her final moments, all unspoken, lingering in the cold air. The mention of organized crime hung like a shadow over every sentence, unconfirmed but plausible, a whisper that turned curiosity into fear.

In that tense, electric night, the hospital entrance became a stage for speculation, for media urgency, and for the grim reality of a teenage girl whose suffering had been unseen and unchecked. Even without her name, her body already told a story of cruelty and neglect, and the whispers outside hinted at a wider, darker world that had allowed it to happen.

—to be continued