THE IMPOSTER IN WHITE

When Ethan Cole opened his eyes, the world came back in fragments—white walls, a rhythmic beeping, and the faint sting of antiseptic in his throat. His head felt like it had been cracked open and glued back together wrong. He blinked. A woman in scrubs leaned over him, her gloved hand cool against his forehead.

“Mr. Cole?” Her voice was soft, deliberate. “You’re at St. Helena Memorial. You were in an accident. You’re safe now.”

Her name tag read CLARA M., printed in perfect serif letters. She smiled—an expression that seemed practiced, but not unkind.

Ethan groaned. “How long have I been out?”

“Two days,” she replied. “You had a concussion, some internal bleeding. But you’re stable. You’re lucky, Mr. Cole.”

He muttered something incoherent and turned his head. Through the half-open blinds, sunlight burned white against the windowpane. Somewhere in the hallway, a gurney squeaked. Everything about the room screamed routine hospital recovery.

Except for one thing.

The clock on the wall—its second hand didn’t move. It was stuck at 4:12.

Hours passed. Clara came and went, efficient but oddly quiet. She didn’t speak much unless necessary. Her eyes were dark, unreadable—like someone remembering a role she had to keep playing.

That night, Ethan woke up again to the hiss of oxygen. The lights were dim. Clara sat near the monitor, reading something on a tablet. Her profile glowed pale in the machine’s light.

He tried to speak. “Clara… could you call my assistant? Or my lawyer—just let them know I’m awake.”

She didn’t look up. “No visitors until the morning.”

He frowned. “That’s not hospital policy.”

She smiled slightly. “It is tonight.”

Something in her tone chilled him. But the pain meds made his limbs heavy, and soon, everything faded again.

The next morning, sunlight broke through. The corridor outside was busy now—nurses chatting, machines rolling, wheels squeaking. Ethan heard laughter, something normal. He tried to convince himself that the night before had been a painkiller-induced blur.

Until the wheelchair rolled past his door.

A thin boy, maybe twelve, pale as paper, was being pushed down the hall. His eyes were dull, half-lidded—until they caught Clara stepping into Ethan’s room.

The boy froze. Then his face contorted in terror.

He screamed.
“Don’t trust her! She’s not a nurse! She’s—”

The orderly shoved the wheelchair forward, startled. A real nurse ran up to restrain him. Doctors came rushing in. The boy’s voice echoed off the sterile walls, trembling with fear.

“She’s not supposed to be here!”

Clara stood motionless, her expression blank. Then, for the briefest second, Ethan saw something—her left hand twitching, nails pressing into her palm. A tic. Controlled anger.

When the hallway cleared, Clara turned back to Ethan with her usual calm.
“Poor boy,” she said. “He’s been here for months. Delusions. Trauma. Sometimes he thinks people are… imposters.”

Ethan nodded slowly. But deep inside, something cold began to move.

That afternoon, Ethan’s lawyer finally called through the nurse’s desk. Or at least, someone claiming to be his lawyer. Clara took the call before handing him the phone.

“Ethan, it’s David,” came the voice. “Rest up, buddy. We’ll handle everything. Don’t talk to anyone until I’m there tomorrow.”

Then a soft click.

He froze. David never said “buddy.” He hated that word.

“Who was that?” Ethan asked.

Clara smiled faintly. “Your lawyer. Everything’s fine now.”

He looked at her name tag again—something he hadn’t noticed before. The hospital logo under her name wasn’t printed; it was stitched, unevenly, like hand embroidery.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. Every sound in the corridor felt amplified—the distant footsteps, the hiss of the air vent, the faint buzz from the broken clock still stuck at 4:12.

He pulled himself out of bed, pain burning through his ribs, and opened the drawer beside him. Inside were his phone, a wallet, and something that shouldn’t have been there: a USB drive with a red sticker labeled ST. HELENA // CONFIDENTIAL.

He hadn’t brought that.

He glanced toward the hallway—empty. Clara was nowhere to be seen.

He slid the USB into the tablet by the bedside. Files popped up: patient logs, images, notes… and one video file labeled “Room 413 – 12/06”.

The footage showed a dim hospital room—this exact one. A man lay on the bed, restrained, thrashing weakly. Clara stood over him. Her calm face never changed as she slowly adjusted the IV, pressed a syringe, and whispered something inaudible. The man’s movements slowed. His eyes rolled back. Flatline.

Then Clara turned to the camera, as if she knew she was being watched. And smiled.

Ethan slammed the tablet shut, gasping.

He needed to get out. Now.

He staggered toward the door, grabbing his IV pole for balance. But as he reached the hallway—

Clara was there. Standing perfectly still.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Cole?”

Her voice was soft, but something behind it cracked like glass.

He tried to speak, but the words stuck.

She took a slow step forward. “You’re still weak. You shouldn’t move around. Not yet.”

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“I told you,” she said, tilting her head, her lips curving slightly. “I’m your nurse.”

But then she added, almost tenderly:
“Or at least… I used to be.”

Before he could react, an alarm blared. Lights flickered. Clara turned toward the sound with a frustrated sigh. “Damn it. Always at the wrong time.”

While she stepped out, Ethan stumbled back into the room, yanking the phone cord to dial 911. But the line was dead—disconnected.

He opened the window. Two stories below, a courtyard. Snow. Escape.

He started pulling himself toward it when something caught his eye—a reflection in the glass. Clara, standing right behind him.

The syringe glimmered in her hand.

“Don’t make this harder,” she murmured. “You don’t understand. You were never meant to wake up.”

Before she could reach him—
A voice shouted from the hall.

“Step away from him!”

It was the boy from the wheelchair. Pale, shaking—but holding a hospital tray like a weapon.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Clara turned, furious. “You again—”

The boy hurled the tray. It hit the IV pole, knocking the syringe from her hand. Ethan grabbed it before it hit the floor. But instead of using it, he saw something—engraved faintly on the metal barrel: “Property of Biogene Research Lab.”

That wasn’t a hospital supply.

Within minutes, real staff flooded in. Orderlies restrained Clara, who screamed—not in fear, but in rage. Her calm façade shattered.

“You idiots!” she shrieked. “He’s the one they want! The prototype survived!”

The words froze everyone.

Ethan was rushed into another wing. Police were called. The boy was taken for questioning, and Clara—if that was even her name—was sedated and cuffed.

Hours later, Detective Alvarez sat across from Ethan, flipping through photos.
“We found no record of her employment here,” he said quietly. “No ID match, no license. She walked in three days ago during a staff change. Nobody questioned her because she looked the part.”

Ethan rubbed his temples. “She said something about Biogene Research.”

The detective nodded. “We know. That’s the part you’re not gonna like.”

He slid a folder across the table. Inside were autopsy photos—patients who’d died mysteriously over the past year. All had similar incisions near the chest.

“She’s been targeting people with specific genetic therapy implants,” Alvarez explained. “Patients from a clinical trial run by Biogene five years ago.”

Ethan’s blood ran cold. “I… I funded that trial.”

“Yes,” Alvarez said. “And according to our files, your car accident might not have been an accident.”

Two weeks later, Ethan left the hospital under heavy security. The boy—whose name was Noah—was moved to foster care. Ethan tried to visit, but the child refused.

“She’ll come back,” Noah whispered. “She always does.”

Ethan tried to brush it off. Until the night before Christmas, when a delivery arrived at his gated home.

No sender. No return address. Just a small package with his name handwritten.

Inside was a folded hospital gown. White. Clean.
And beneath it, a name tag:
CLARA M.

But the back of the tag had something new—etched faintly with a laser tool:

“Prototype 02 located. Retrieval in progress.”

Outside, a car engine started.

And the clock on the mantel—stuck for years—suddenly ticked to 4:12.