New Vance City

The Radiology Department is a fossilized shrine to a science that once illuminated the human body—now warped by infection, silence, and fear. Deep within New Vance City Memorial Hospital’s rotten shell, the department has become a nesting site for shambler variants that appear drawn to residual radiation. Cracked diagnostic machines buzz faintly, occasionally spitting static onto half-functioning monitors. Locals call it the “Ghost Eye,” believing the machines can still “see” the sickness inside you. No one knows if it’s superstition, malfunction, or something the Silent Walkers repurposed. What is certain is this: the Walkers linger here. Some say they commune with the lingering radiation, using it to chart mutations or detect the unspoken language of the infected. Others say they’re waiting—for what, no one dares guess. Entering the Radiology wing isn't just dangerous—it’s transformative. What you bring in might not leave. And what leaves? It’s not quite you anymore.

The entrance to the Radiology Department is flanked by collapsed signage spelling “DIAG_ STIC IMAG _G,” barely lit by the last flickers of an emergency generator running on decayed loop. The double doors, bent inward like something clawed its way out, swing slowly in the ever-humming air. Inside, the atmosphere is syrup-thick with chemical rot and ozone. Lead-lined walls blister with fungal veins, some pulsing faintly with bioluminescence. Ancient X-ray panels flicker ghost images of broken spines and withered lungs. MRI tubes, half-submerged in floodwater, glisten with strange moss. Rusted equipment has been rearranged—ritualistically—into scanning circles or spirals, as if someone, or something, still practices diagnosis. Shambler silhouettes lurk beyond glass dividers. And in the farthest corner, a Silent Walker stands immobile in front of a still-operational imaging screen—its skeletal frame illuminated by soft, flickering light, like a patient waiting for results long overdue.