The city was dead.
Not just asleep—dead.
Even the air felt reluctant. No cars passed. No distant chatter. No dull thump of music from half-lit apartments clinging to life.
On the outskirts, where the glow of civilization dulled into construction zones and forgotten roads, the quiet pressed heavier.
A few lights were visible from active worksites in the distance—weak halos perched on tall poles, barely holding back the dark.
And then there was the hospital.
It didn't belong to time anymore. Red brick façade weathered to scabs. Windows either smashed or boarded, like even the glass had tried to escape.
The front gate was bent inward, barbed wire curling above like rusted teeth. What might've been garden paths were now cracks in a field of weeds.
Trees leaned too far, their roots exposed, like they'd been trying to walk away for decades and just gave up.
