GM Information : Newhaven Survivors : Dr. Smele allowed one badly wounded survivor to die. He locked him in a cage in the back room for 'Observation', and just watched him die.
A small veterinary clinic sits in eerie stillness. Exam tables are lined with the bodies of animals — not torn apart, not consumed, simply arranged with clinical precision. Bandages, IV lines, and handwritten tags suggest care that was attempted long after it made sense.
The air smells faintly of antiseptic and dust. A ceiling fan turns slowly, stirring papers that list symptoms no living creature could still have.
From the back hallway, soft footsteps approach — uneven, deliberate, familiar.
Dr. Smele limps into view wearing the tattered remains of a veterinarian’s coat. His skin is pale, his eyes sunken but not empty — more lost than dead. His hands twitch as if remembering how to hold a stethoscope.
He studies the survivors with the same gentle focus he once gave frightened pets.
“Easy now,” he murmurs, voice soft and frayed. “No sudden movements. You’re hurt, aren’t you?”
He says it with quiet certainty, though none of them are injured.
Behind him, a dog lies on an exam table, stitched with careful, pointless sutures — a patient he never stopped trying to save.
Dr. Smele steps closer, limping, one hand raised in a calming gesture.
“I can help,” he says. “I’ve been helping all morning.”
He gestures toward the animals — cats, dogs, even a goat — each laid out with clinical precision. Some have bandages. Some have IV lines inserted into nothing. Some have tags written in neat, steady handwriting:
Observation pending
Monitor breathing
Possible infection
He moves with the slow confidence of someone performing a familiar ritual.
“You’re in the right place,” he assures them. “Just need to get you on the table. We’ll sort you out.”
His smile is small, apologetic. He believes every word.
If the survivors hesitate, he grows gently insistent.
“Come now. Don’t be difficult. Animals panic when they’re in pain. People too.”
He reaches for a tray of tools — not weapons, but instruments of care: scissors, clamps, a cracked otoscope. He handles them with reverence, though his fingers tremble.
A twitch runs through him, sharp and involuntary. His jaw tightens. For a moment, something like grief flickers across his face.
Then it’s gone.
“Let’s begin,” he says, as if announcing a routine check‑up.
He tries to guide the nearest survivor toward the exam table — not violently, but with the firm, practiced touch of a vet coaxing a nervous animal.
If resisted, he looks confused, almost wounded.
“I’m trying to help,” he whispers. “Why won’t you let me help?”
His confusion can turn to insistence. Never rage. Never malice.
Just the terrible momentum of a man following a procedure he no longer understands.
The clinic reveals Dr. Smele’s unraveling long before he speaks:
Charts on the wall updated with human silhouettes instead of animals
A clipboard with notes like “Patient restless. Sedation recommended.”
A kennel with its door open, blankets neatly folded inside
A syringe filled with cloudy fluid labelled “For pain”
A metal table wiped spotless except for a single handprint
A calendar still turned to the month the outbreak began
This place was once a sanctuary. Now it is a ritual space for care that no longer heals.
Dr. Smele’s speech is gentle, clinical, and heartbreakingly earnest. He speaks as if performing a check‑up, not an attack.
Sample lines:
“Easy… easy. I’ve got you.”
“Let’s take a look at that injury.”
“You’re frightened. That’s normal.”
“I’ve treated worse today. You’ll be fine.”
“Please don’t struggle. It only makes things harder.”
“I won’t let you suffer. Not again.”
His voice should feel like a lullaby sung in the wrong context.
Players can notice the clinical precision of the room, the tags, the sutures, the way he checks for injuries that aren’t there.
Talking to him may soothe or redirect him briefly, but he interprets everything as symptoms or distress.
Allowing him to “examine” them may buy time, though it risks escalation as he attempts to proceed with treatment.
Possible while he prepares tools or consults notes, but the clinic’s narrow halls create bottlenecks.
Refusing treatment will annoy Dr. Smele but not make him obviously angry. He is used to unwilling patients coming to the vets, and he merely needs to sedate them. Any attack is likely to be sudden, and an attempt to give an injection.