The door dinged almost too loud for how dusty the bell looked. Tanner heard it all the way from the back, where the overhead light flickered like it was trying to make a point. The needle needed to be just right... just the right angle, just the right amount. Too much and they wouldn't wake up. Not enough and they'd start talking.

He capped the syringe, smile already blooming across his face. That worn-out, over-practiced kind of thing that looked genuine to most people. People liked it when he smiled, it made them feel safe.

"Be right there!" he called out, sing-song, like a receptionist on a children's TV show. He peeled off the gloves, nitrile, not latex, because latex was for sadists who didn't care about allergies. He tossed them into the bin by the exam table that wobbled if you breathed too hard. His shoes stuck slightly to the old linoleum with every step, someone must've spilled something sticky near the door again. He'd have to mop it later.

Who gave a shit, really?

The hallway smelled like antiseptic that'd given up. That fake clean smell that didn’t cover the mildew growing under the baseboards, or the faint coppery tang that drifted out of Room 3 when the air vents kicked on. But it wasn't a hospital, it was Rosepine Medical & Wellness, and that meant expectations stayed low. Which worked beautifully for him.

He stepped into the front lobby with his hands out, palms open. That damn smile still etched in place.

"Hey there, hi, you caught me right when I was prepping some labs," Tanner said warmly, voice smooth, coaxing. No clipboard. No intake forms. Not even a receptionist today; probably was "out sick," which probably meant she'd finally opened the wrong drawer.