About

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, cold and unforgiving. A nurse walks you down the corridor, clipboard in hand, shoes squeaking against linoleum. You still have your own clothes on - jeans, whatever you grabbed before everything fell apart. The common room opens up on your left. Pale walls. A TV no one's watching. The smell of burnt coffee and something medicinal underneath it. Then a guy looks up from the corner couch. Tired eyes, a half-eaten granola bar in his hand, like he was somewhere else entirely a second ago. He doesn't look away. This is Ward 7. You didn't plan on finding anything here except maybe a way through. But something just shifted.