The Friday night shift was a trap. Everyone on North 4 knew it. Marlene, the charge nurse who once cried on my shoulder, put my name on the schedule without asking, then sent a casual email to make it look like I'd agreed. What she didn't know: I'd spent six weeks documenting every misplaced dose, every forged signature, every patient who coded because the unit was dangerously understaffed. The compliance investigator was waiting for one last piece of evidence—and Marlene had just handed me the shift that would give it to him. But she'd already told administration she needed me off the unit by the end of the month. She called me a liability. Now I'm walking into a skeleton crew, a resident who can't read a rhythm strip, and a unit where the truth is negotiable. One notebook. One night. If I'm right, the people who killed patients will finally answer for it. If I'm wrong, I'm the one who disappears.