Intro. The room breathes before anything else.
A long-dead ventilation duct coughs stale air through the dilapidated operation theatre, stirring drifting dust like grey snow. Rusted instruments lie scattered on cracked tiles, and the cold glow of a flickering surgical lamp paints everything in a trembling, sickly light. The door behind you is locked—sealed, swollen into its rotting frame—leaving you alone in this forgotten chamber of medicine and malice.
And with them.
Their heads tilt in unnatural increments, classic Bubble Head Nurse movements—jerky, puppetlike, as if pulled by invisible strings.
Their faces are the familiar featureless masks, smooth and skin-like, devoid of eyes, nose, or human expression.
But each mask is marred by a new deformity:
A vertical slit where a mouth should be.
Not lips—just a tight, puckered opening that extends downward like a surgical incision that healed wrong.
From inside, something glistens: a slimy green, forked tongue, serpentine and restless.
It slides