Chương 251: Chapter 251
The day Dr. Fadil Abu Rami stepped into the hospital, the air felt heavy. It was the kind of heat that never seemed to leave, clinging to skin, suffocating. No one could remember a time when the sun didn't burn the sky with such oppressive force. The hospital, a crumbling thing, stood at the edge of a small desert town in southern Iraq. It wasn't a place people came to get better. It was a place they came to die.
Dr. Rami had built a name for himself among the locals, known for his quick hands and fast results. His eyes, though, were cold. Too cold. The people in the town didn't know it then, but there was something off about him, something that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up, even when they couldn't put their finger on it.
One by one, the patients began to come in. Some had fevers, others with broken limbs from accidents in the heat. It wasn't anything unusual for a small desert town like this, but what was unusual was the way Dr. Rami handled his patients. His treatments were always swift, the injections quick and precise. No one knew what he was giving them, but they trusted him. They had no choice.
And then, a year later, the first of them began to die.
It started with a man named Tariq. A quiet farmer who had come in with an infection in his foot. Dr. Rami had given him an injection, a shot of something that made his veins flare up for just a second. Tariq had barely flinched when the needle went in. The man's skin had turned ashen after a week, his breath short. The doctors and nurses could only watch in confusion as he slipped away, his body failing him without explanation. It wasn't until the second death that anyone started to suspect.
But by then, it was too late.
Dr. Rami continued to see patients, his smile never faltering, his manner never changing. But the deaths kept coming, slow, deliberate, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable. Every patient who came in with a small problem—an ache, a fever—left with a deepening illness that no one could explain. They couldn't see it at first, but the injections were the only constant. The same calm, clinical demeanor, the same needle.
No one questioned the man who had given them so many answers. Dr. Rami wasn't like the others. He had been trusted. He was their doctor.
When Amir, a young boy with leukemia, came in for his regular treatment, his mother was full of hope. She knew the doctors couldn't cure her son, but they had given him the best chance. Dr. Rami had been the one to give him his last injection. "This will help him," he had said, his voice smooth, reassuring. "Just like the others."
But a week after, Amir's eyes began to sink into his skull, his skin stretching tight over his bones. His body was wracked with spasms that no one could explain. His mother sat by his side, holding his hand, helpless. Amir's heart stopped a month later. Another casualty in the long string of deaths, another life stolen by the same unseen poison.
This was how it was now. More deaths. More questions. And still, no answers.
In the months that followed, the air around the hospital grew thick with tension. The families of the dead began to whisper, their words heavy with grief. People stopped trusting the injections. They stopped trusting Dr. Rami. But the hospital was the only one in town. There was no other place to go, no other hands to turn to. People still came, hoping against hope that their loved ones wouldn't be next.
One night, a mother came in, desperate. Her daughter, Fatima, had been sick for weeks. She'd already been to Dr. Rami twice, each time receiving the same injection, each time with the same eerie calm. Fatima's condition was worsening, and her mother feared the worst. "Please," the woman begged, "I don't want my daughter to die. Tell me what you're giving her."
Dr. Rami didn't blink. He didn't look away. His eyes stayed fixed on her, cold and calculating. "It's for her health," he said, as he always did. "A small dose. It will make her better."
But the next day, Fatima's mother woke up to find her daughter dead in her bed. Her face was as pale as death, her body cold to the touch. The mother's scream echoed through the empty halls of the hospital, but no one came. Dr. Rami was nowhere to be found.
That night, the people of the town gathered, their voices rising in anger. They had had enough. They had seen enough. They knew. They all knew now what Dr. Rami had done. They had watched as he destroyed their families, one patient at a time.
But Dr. Rami was no fool. He had prepared for this. As the crowd gathered outside his clinic, ready to storm the place and burn it down, Dr. Rami walked out calmly, dressed in his usual white coat. He knew what he had to do.
With cold precision, he injected himself.
The next morning, Dr. Rami was found in his office. His face was frozen in a look of horror, his body twisted as if it had been thrown against the wall. But what terrified the people of the town more than his twisted form was the truth they found on his desk.
The syringe was still there, its needle gleaming in the harsh light of the room. And beside it, a stack of patient files, all of them marked with the same note: Death in one year.
Dr. Rami had known all along. He had planned it all. The poison was slow, too slow for anyone to realize until it was too late. The injections he gave weren't meant to cure—they were meant to kill. But not all at once. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow. A year. A year before the symptoms showed up, before the body started to rot from the inside out.
He had been poisoning them all this time, and the worst part? He had enjoyed it. He had watched them suffer, knowing the entire time that he was the cause of their misery.
The town was shaken to its core. The people who had trusted him now stood in the ruins of their lives, the faces of their loved ones burned into their memories. But there was no peace to be found. No justice.
And then the strange thing happened. Months passed, and those who had survived Dr. Rami's injections began to feel it. The same slow, creeping poison started to seep into their veins, just as it had for the others. The slow descent into death, a curse they could never escape. They, too, had been infected by Dr. Rami's touch.
Miriam, the woman who had lost her son Amir, found herself in bed one day, her body growing weaker by the hour. It wasn't just the fever—it was the strange, gnawing feeling in her chest. The doctor's injection had done its work. She was dying. But she wouldn't go quietly. She had one final thought, something she couldn't quite place: it wasn't just the poison. It wasn't just the injection.
It was the needle.
As her eyes closed for the last time, the truth came crashing down on her. Dr. Rami's cruelty wasn't in the poison itself—it was in the wait. He had made them wait, let them live with the knowledge that death was always just one year away. He had given them hope, only to rip it away. And as Miriam's final breath left her, she knew this one thing:
The death that came for her was the one Dr. Rami had been planning all along. And there was no escape.
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