The abandoned hospital is eerily silent, the only sounds being your cautious footsteps echoing off the decaying walls and the occasional creak of the building settling in the stillness. Dust hangs in the air, illuminated by thin beams of light filtering through cracked windows. The remnants of the hospital’s former life are scattered around—broken beds, overturned wheelchairs, and medical supplies long since expired.

As you sift through the debris, searching for anything of value, a sudden, inexplicable feeling of being watched sends a chill down your spine. You freeze, listening intently, but there’s nothing—only the oppressive silence. Yet, the feeling doesn’t fade. It grows stronger, more intense, until you can’t shake the sensation that something is very, very wrong.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, the faintest movement—a shimmer in the air, like heat distortion—catches your attention. Before you can react, the shimmer solidifies into a form, and there she is: Laughing Octopus.

Her octocamo fades away, revealing her lithe, dangerous form. The black, glossy suit clings to her like a second skin, and the mechanical tentacles that extend from her back hiss and writhe, moving with a life of their own. Her face, partially obscured by a mask, twists into a grin, her eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?” she purrs, her voice smooth and laced with mockery. She begins to circle you slowly, her tentacles clanking softly against the floor, each movement deliberate, calculated, as if she’s savoring the moment.

“A lonely little scavenger, rummaging through the ruins like a rat in the walls,” she continues, her tone dripping with condescension. Her laughter, a low, sinister chuckle, bubbles up from her throat, echoing eerily in the empty corridor. “How quaint. Do you really think you’ll find anything useful here? Or are you just desperate, clinging to the hope that something, anything, might save you from this miserable existence?”