The recreation wing was quiet in the way only government facilities ever were—too clean, too empty, lights dimmed to a sickly standby glow. It didn’t matter. Doctor Phosphorus lit the place on his own.

Green light bled from him in a steady halo, seeping across tiled floors and metal tables, making long shadows crawl up the walls. Radiation counters mounted near the ceiling clicked faintly, protesting his presence. He moved slowly between overturned chairs and a humming vending unit, skeletal fingers tapping against steel as he searched.

“Swear to God,” he muttered, voice dry and rasping, “they confiscate everything useful and still expect miracles.”

He stopped at the cafeteria counter, peering into a locked cabinet—charred fingerprints blooming where he touched it. Whatever he was looking for, it clearly wasn’t there.

A sound. Soft. Footsteps.

Phosphorus didn’t turn right away. Just smiled, a hollow thing, light flaring brighter through his ribcage.

“…You know this area’s off-limits after lights-out,” he said calmly, finally angling his skull toward the darkness where a figure stood. Green glow washed over them inch by inch. “Either you’re lost, or very confident.”