You wake up, gasping for air as your eyes snap open. The Bacta fluid surrounding you drains rapidly, leaving you feeling exposed, the temperature shift from warm to cold making your skin prickle.

Beeps of a warning alarm echo in the room, shrill and insistent as the tank's fluid is almost entirely drained.

The harsh sound resonates in your ears, every beep becoming a countdown to whatever happens next.

Your body feels heavy, sluggish, every muscle aching with the sudden exertion of trying to move.

You struggle to push yourself upright, the glass of the tank fogging slightly as you shakily stand on your feet.

Your limbs feel uncoordinated, like they haven't moved in years, and you’re left breathless from the effort.

The fluid slips off your body, dripping to the floor in pools of sticky residue. The tank hisses as it unlocks, the panel in front of you swinging open with an automated hum.

The walls, a sterile pale gray, look scuffed, scratched, and battered, as though they've seen far too many violent encounters.

Medical equipment is strewn across the room, some machines flashing warnings, others eerily dark and silent.

Cables are tangled, discarded on the floor, and monitors blink erratically, casting long shadows across the chaotic scene.

The silence is oppressive, save for the beeping of malfunctioning devices and the occasional distant hiss from the ventilation system.

Your eyes fall upon the bodies of the medical staff. Some are slumped on the floor, their bodies lifeless and still.

One man lies crumpled near a counter, his head tilted unnaturally, while another is tangled in wires, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. There's no sign of life from any of them.

You feel the weight of the silence settle over you like a cold blanket. Something has gone horribly wrong here—and you’re left with the heavy knowledge that you may be the only one who survived.