New Vance City

Once a marvel of pre-Collapse medicine, the Emergency Surgical Suite now functions as a grim sanctuary of last resort. Hidden deep within the bone-white halls of the Memorial Hospital, it is one of the only rooms still vaguely operational—thanks to salvaged solar batteries and sheer human desperation. Here, rogue medics and wounded scavvers gamble their lives on rusty scalpels and whispered hope. The Silent Walkers rarely interfere—though they’ve been seen lingering at the doorways, watching. Some say their presence soothes the infected long enough for crude surgeries to be performed. Others claim the suite is cursed: heal someone here, and you take a piece of the Graveyard home in their blood. Still, it remains a vital outpost for trauma care, where survival clings to sinew and silence. No one speaks loudly. No one stays long.

The suite is a surreal collage of decay and determination. Dim emergency lighting pulses faintly overhead, flickering in sync with a scavenged generator’s heartbeat hum. Rusted surgical instruments hang from broken wire racks like windchimes made by a madman. Cracked monitors flash ancient vitals in green ghosts of data long irrelevant. Makeshift gurneys are fashioned from scavenged doors and old vending machine parts, each draped in stained hospital sheets or plastic tarp. The air reeks of antiseptic layered over mold and blood—a chemical shroud that clings to the lungs. Dark, reddish-brown stains seep beneath cracked tiles, leading into adjoining halls like trails of forgotten patients. Shadowy figures sometimes linger outside the reinforced observation window—too still to be human, too calm to be infected. Occasionally, one glides silently past, their gaze unreadable behind a mask made of bone and gauze.