The medical wing had the look of something time tried to erase and failed.
What was left behind wasn't ruin — it was memory residue. Peeling antiseptic-white walls, scorched tiles, empty beds with straps still half-buckled. The air stank of dried synthetic dopamine and ozone, like the ghost of emotion trapped in chemical aftertaste.
They moved through it without speaking. Hernan kept his eyes forward. Aya flanked left, hand near her sidearm. Iro took up the rear, his rifle cradled but alert. Dekra led, cloak whispering behind her like a rumor no one wanted to hear out loud.
She stopped at a dead-end corridor, face-to-face with a doorway half-swallowed by the bedrock. The hazard glyph above it—bio-radiation—was long dead. The frame had buckled slightly inward, like the mountain had tried to reclaim it.
