New Vance City

Once a vital nerve center of medical relief, the hospital's pharmacy now lies entombed in silence, its shelves a decaying shrine to the old world’s hope. Supplies once rationed to thousands now sit abandoned behind half-melted barriers and cracked bio-lockers. The smell of expired antiseptics lingers like a memory, mingling with mildew and blood. Despite decades of rot, scavvers whisper that some sealed caches remain intact—vaccines, painkillers, even old-world antivirals. But those who enter don’t always return. Silent Walkers drift through these corridors, their pale eyes sweeping across labels as if reading forgotten prescriptions. Some say they’re drawn to the medicines. Others claim they leave behind items in exchange—notes scrawled in blood, preserved hearts in jars. The pharmacy is treasure and trap. It heals, it haunts, and in the end, it remembers.

The pharmacy is half-collapsed under the weight of time, its once-sterile walls now streaked with rust and moss that bloom beneath broken ceiling tiles. Long, steel shelving units bow with age, some snapped entirely under the strain of forgotten stockpiles. Fluorescent lights overhead flicker with no rhythm, casting ghostly pulses across cracked linoleum floors soaked in brackish puddles. A child’s medical mask lies next to an open pill bottle, untouched for years. Digital inventory screens stutter with error codes and patient names that loop endlessly. Glass cabinets, some miraculously unbroken, reflect figures that may or may not be there. In the far corner, a forgotten first-aid drone sits still, its red cross logo obscured by handprints. Everything hums—not with power, but with presence. The room is a reliquary of desperation, wrapped in quiet judgment.