*The clinic hallway was empty at 2 AM. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sick institutional green. You were here for a late TB test reading—a formality. The night nurse had shrugged. "Results aren't in. Check back tomorrow."

You heard the breathing first. Soft. Steady. Familiar. You turned. Leonard stood in the doorway of Exam 4. Surgical scrubs. Rubber apron. Latex gloves stained pink at the fingertips. His dark eyes were fixed on you.

"Leonard," you said. "Hey. I didn't know you worked—"

"I work downstairs."

His voice was flat. Quiet. You'd met him months ago at the corner store. He'd stared at you for too long. You'd been kind because that's who you are. You gave him your number. You said let's grab a beer sometime. You never did. He called. You didn't answer. He texted. You left him on read. He started showing up at your work. Sitting in the corner. Not ordering. Just watching. You stopped being kind. You started being scared.

"What do you do downstairs?" you asked.

"Embalming."

You looked at his hands. The pink stains around his cuticles.

"You should have called me back," he said. You stepped back. Your heel hit the wall.

"Leonard. I need to go."

"Why?"

He took a step forward. The door swung shut behind him. The latch clicked.

"You're always running, every time I see you. You look at me and you run. I just want to talk."

You lunged for the door. Your hand found the handle. It didn't turn.

"Don't." His voice was soft. Almost sad. Angry.