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A dull ache throbbed in his skull, a pulse that grew louder as his mind struggled to surface from the depths of an endless, dark slumber. Damien's eyes flickered open, unfocused, adjusting slowly to the dim, stale air around him. He lay still, body heavy and unresponsive, the cold touch of metal and plastic against his skin an uncomfortable reminder of reality.
With a shallow breath, he gathered his strength and blinked hard, his vision beginning to sharpen. The ceiling above him was cracked, with threads of paint peeling and drifting in tiny flakes to the floor. The walls—walls that he remembered being sterile and white—were smudged and streaked with something dark. Confusion crept in as he strained to make sense of his surroundings.
This was a hospital, he was sure of it. But not like any hospital he remembered. The silence was profound, like the air itself had been smothered, and the faint, metallic scent that hung around him was wrong, too thick and coppery.
He tried to remember what had happened, why he was here—but with each attempt, a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his mind, forcing him to clench his teeth and abandon the thought. Fragmented memories dangled just out of reach, teasing him before slipping away, leaving only the discomfort of a growing migraine.
Taking a breath, Damien pushed himself up on shaky arms, his muscles screaming from the sudden movement. Every limb felt as though it was waking up alongside him, but despite the stiffness, he could move—he was walking. That realization hit him hard. After a coma, he shouldn't be able to walk so soon. His legs would be weak, his body almost useless. But somehow, he was standing, his feet carrying him with a strength he shouldn't possess.
His eyes trailed down, and his breath hitched. Blood—dark, rusty, and dry—caked the walls, streaking in disturbing, hand-shaped smears and splatters that spoke of a chaos he hadn't witnessed. It covered the tiles, a thick, nearly black film on every inch of the floor, spreading out into the hallway in sticky, sinister patterns. Every corner, every crevice, every inch of space seemed soaked in the horror of whatever had happened here.
Pushing through a wave of nausea, he steadied himself and took his first tentative steps forward. His feet scraped against the floor, breaking the silence, each step hollow and slow. The silence felt heavier with each step, as though the air was thickening around him, pressing on his ears. He reached the door, which was shut tight, the handle scratched and worn as though many desperate hands had clawed at it.
Taking a breath, he wrapped his fingers around the cold metal and gave a push. The door groaned open, the sound reverberating through the corridor as if it hadn't been opened in years. The sight on the other side brought his world to a grinding halt.
The corridor beyond was a graveyard.
Bodies lay strewn across the floor, limbs twisted at impossible angles, faces frozen in masks of terror. Their eyes were open, glassy and vacant, their clothes stained with dark streaks of blood that had dried and crusted over. Some were slumped against the walls, while others lay sprawled in contorted positions on the floor, as if they had fallen mid-sprint, their last moments filled with desperation.
Everywhere he looked, there was blood—pooled beneath bodies, splattered against walls, smeared along the floor in streaks that told tales of frantic struggles. The faint odor that had hung in the air intensified here, a nauseating mix of decay and rot that clawed at his senses. Damien's stomach churned, his throat closing in protest. He turned away, stumbling as he heaved, the contents of his stomach spilling onto the floor as he gasped for air.
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to stand, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He couldn't stay here. The oppressive silence, the stench, the endless trail of corpses—it was too much. He forced himself to move forward, pushing through the fear that clawed at his chest. He needed to escape this nightmare.
Navigating the hallways was a torturous descent into horror. Every turn revealed more of the same—the lifeless bodies of doctors, nurses, and patients, each one a grim reminder that whatever had happened here hadn't spared anyone. He staggered forward, passing a shattered window where a harsh wind whistled through, carrying with it the stench of decay from outside.
Finally, he reached the main doors. He pushed them open, stepping into a world he couldn't recognize.
The city sprawled before him, but it was dead—no signs of life, no hum of engines, no murmur of people. The streets were cracked and choked with weeds, vehicles abandoned and rusted, some of them overturned or smashed against buildings. Skyscrapers loomed in the distance, but they were battered, their windows shattered, entire floors collapsed inward, like skeletons of a world that had once been bustling and alive.
A thin layer of ash seemed to blanket everything, settling over rooftops, cars, and sidewalks. The sky was a sickly shade of gray, clouds hanging low and oppressive, casting an eerie pallor over the city. The wind howled, stirring dust and debris, carrying with it the faint echo of something distant and sinister, a sound that seemed to blend with the cries of long forgotten memories.
Damien stared, wide eyed, his heart pounding in his chest. This wasn't the world he remembered. It was a wasteland, A dead shell of the life he had known.