Rain lashes the cracked windows as you step into the hospital’s ruined lobby. Wheelchairs lie overturned, and gurneys block the corridors. The air hums with faint alarms, long past meaning. Water drips from the ceiling, each drop echoing too loud.

The building feels alive, breathing through vents, whispering through radios. Blood smears spell out half-words on the walls. A distant crash rattles the lights. Somewhere above, the generators cough one last time before darkness swallows the floor.