Minutes blurred into hours, slipping past unnoticed in the sterile glow of artificial light.
The technician barely moved from his station, his eyes fixed on the data streaming across the screen. Numbers, sequences, patterns—each line pulling him deeper, tightening his focus until the outside world ceased to exist. Even the low hum of the machines faded into the background, becoming nothing more than a distant, mechanical heartbeat.
He was so consumed that he failed to notice the quiet shift behind him.
The back door slid open without a sound.
No footsteps.
No warning.
Just a presence—silent and deliberate—slipping into the room like a shadow that didn't belong.
The so-called "mini hospital" was anything but modest.
From the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than a cluster of modular housing units, hastily assembled and connected into a functional space. But inside, it told a very different story.
