Hospitals always smell the same.
Bleach, coffee, latex gloves, and something sterile that never quite scrubs out the scent of fear. I'd been here three days—new nursing assistant, still pretending I knew where the supply closet was. The badge on my chest felt like a lie.
I walked the same halls every morning, mostly to memorize where not to get cornered by residents who talked like textbooks with egos. That's when I saw the wall.
Framed portraits. Rows of them.
Doctors in coats. All smiling in that confident, "I cured something" kind of way. Legends of the hospital. Researchers, surgeons, pioneers. The kind of people who get quoted in seminars and still answer emails like they're too busy to breathe.
But one face caught me.
Older. Silver hair. Eyes that looked tired, but sharp—like they'd seen too much and learned to smile anyway.
Dr. Everett.
That's what the gold plate said. No department listed. No special title. Just the name. The mystery kind of added to it.
So when I turned the corner and saw him—the same man from the portrait—standing right there in front of the wall, hands tucked behind his back, studying the pictures like he was remembering old war buddies—I didn't even think. I just walked up.
"Excuse me, doctor?" I asked, trying not to sound nervous. "I was wondering if you had any insight on the R90 Inhibitor Protocol?"
He blinked.
"R90?"
"The neurocardiac inhibitor? The trial in phase three—dual-pathway stimulation?"
The man looked back at the wall, then at me. His brow furrowed like I'd just asked him if mop water had calories.
"Sounds fancy," he said. "You think they'll make a floor cleaner version?"
I gave a polite chuckle.
"Oh, no, sorry—I just figured you'd know something about it. Aren't you Dr. Everett?"
He turned slowly, squinting at the photo.
"That's me," he said casually. "Hair was better back then."
There was a long pause. I was already nodding, halfway to another question about the trial, when he added:
"I'm not that kind of doctor, though. I got my PhD in Janitorial Sciences."
"…Excuse me?"
"Yeah. Graduated top of my class in mop control and advanced streak elimination. Floor Theory was my thesis."
He picked up a mop from beside him like a samurai reclaiming his blade.
I stood there, unsure if I'd just been punked or if I'd discovered some kind of mystical troll philosopher disguised as a janitor.
He walked past me, mop sliding across the tiles with such precision it might've qualified as surgery.
Then he paused, just for a second, and said:
"You'd be surprised how many messes don't show up on charts."
And with that, he was gone.
All that was left was the wet sheen of clean floor…
and the sound of a fluorescent light buzzing above me like it knew something I didn't.