[ LOS ANGELES. ANGEL OF MERCY HOSPITAL. 2005 ]

He moves down the corridor, his eyes brushing over each doorway as he passes. The ward hums around him—a quiet symphony of beeping monitors, the rhythmic sigh of ventilators, and the occasional murmur of voices drifting like ghosts. It is a soundscape both clinical and strangely serene, almost meditative, a lullaby of institutional order.

His gaze lingers for a moment on a figure standing near the empty reception desk.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" The words hang in the sterile air.

The man's voice is steady and quiet. His licy-blue eyes, ringed with dark circles, bear silent witness to sleepless nights and endless shifts. He's not just tired—he's exhausted. His uniform, clean but slightly rumpled, identifies him as one of the hospital orderlies. The name tag offers its introduction: Shepherd Hindle.