After his transfer to the isolated wing, his condition changed—subtly, but unmistakably. Nurses assigned to that ward reported increased electrical disturbances.
Machines malfunctioned without cause. Temperature sensors recorded brief, localized drops around his bed during the early morning hours.
And then, six weeks later, Rohan’s vital signs flatlined.
Resuscitation efforts failed.
Time of death was recorded as 3:43 a.m.
The autopsy revealed nothing abnormal. Brain tissue showed signs of long-term hypoxic damage consistent with his original injury. No trauma. No infection. No explanation.
His family was told he had “finally let go.”
But the phenomena did not stop.
The red monitor light in Room 412-C—removed, unplugged, and stored—continued to blink intermittently when brought into evidence storage. Technicians replaced power supplies. They disconnected wiring. They isolated the unit.
It blinked anyway.
Eventually, the device disappeared from inventory.
Dr. Arjun Malhotra’s resignation letter was only three sentences long. He cited “irreconcilable ethical conflict” and thanked the hospital for the opportunity to serve. He emptied his office that same day and left without saying goodbye.
Friends say he sold his apartment within a month.
His medical license was never renewed.
The last confirmed sighting of him was in a small coastal town in Kerala, where he was seen boarding a ferry to a remote island known more for abandoned temples than tourism. He carried no luggage.
Years later, journalists attempted to revisit the case. Every request for comment was declined. Files were sealed. Names were redacted. Hospital administrators claimed institutional memory gaps due to staff turnover.
Yet patterns remained.
Every child born to the affected nurses was healthy. Normal. Remarkably calm. Pediatricians noted an unusual tendency toward prolonged eye contact and advanced motor coordination.
