I crossed the street and didn't look back.
The atmosphere was murky. The morning light still hadn't grown strong enough to pierce the fog, but County General Hospital was already awake.
Lights on.
People moving.
A deep chaos of whines, screams, and rushing footsteps existed beneath the calm of night slowly turning into morning.
Nothing about it looked wrong.
Nothing out of place.
It was a hospital after all.
Accidents, pain, and death didn't come with a schedule.
My Perception wouldn't stop humming.
Not pain.
Pressure.
A strong pressure behind my eyes, inside my skull. Like my senses were being violently stretched to their limit whether I wanted it or not.
I stopped across from the entrance and breathed slowly. Like trying to calm a strong migraine.
It worked—halfway.
The pressure subsided, but it was still too much.
I focused, isolating the contract location, which was clear in my mind.
Service corridors.
Sublevel.
I could feel the direction without even looking.
A pull. Subtle, but constant.
The three extra skill points I'd invested in Perception had pushed my senses past normal.
Almost superhuman.
I had always been intuitive. I noticed details others missed.
Maybe the number 10 in the stats was the human baseline.
What an average person was capable of.
My Perception was 17.
Seventeen.
Almost double normal.
"The stats are real…" I muttered.
No system response.
No confirmation.
I didn't need one.
The world already looked different.
I walked in.
The automatic doors slid open. Cool air hit my face.
Disinfectant. Coffee. Despair.
Something metallic underneath it all.
People passed by.
Nurses. Patients. Visitors.
They didn't see anything wrong.
I did.
The floor wasn't clean.
Not to me.
Faint lines crossed it. Not scratches—paths. Like something had been dragged repeatedly from one place to another.
Fear.
Grief.
That's what it looked like to me.
They weren't hallucinations. I wasn't seeing colors or ghosts.
It was more like knowing where those emotions had settled.
I stood still for too long.
Someone bumped my shoulder.
"Sorry" they said automatically, already walking away.
Their apology left a faint echo behind them.
I couldn't distinguish it clearly. It was weak.
I exhaled.
Focus.
I didn't need to see everything.
Just what mattered.
I scanned the lobby again—not with my eyes, but with my Perception.
Most of the emotional residue drifted toward the elevators.
That made sense.
But a thinner thread pulled sideways. Sharp. Focused.
Staff only.
I followed it.
The hallway looked normal.
White walls. Cheap framed posters. A janitor pushing a cart.
He glanced at me.
I kept walking.
He didn't stop me.
At the end of the corridor was a door with a digital six-digit keypad.
They don't care much about security, I thought.
That lock was easily hackable. Six digits didn't give that many combinations. It was probably just there to stop overly eager family members from bothering staff about patients.
I stopped in front of it and pretended to check my phone.
Up close, the keypad felt used.
Not dirty.
Worn.
Each number carried a faint imprint. Some deeper than others.
Repeated contact.
Muscle memory.
Routine.
I leaned in slightly.
Perception sharpened.
Four numbers stood out immediately. Pressed more often. Layered impressions.
Two others were present—fainter, but recent.
Six digits.
I didn't know the order, but I understood the beginning of the pattern.
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Not to guess.
To listen.
I didn't hear sounds. I felt a rhythm. The pattern of someone entering the code without thinking.
I entered the first combination.
Beep.
Red light.
Of course I wouldn't get it on the first try…
My pulse spiked. I glanced around.
No one cared.
People made mistakes all the time.
I adjusted the order. Changed one digit based on a hesitation I'd felt in the residue.
Beep.
Green.
The lock clicked.
I didn't smile.
Didn't react.
But inside me?
I was freaking impressed.
That Perception stat is insane.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The air changed immediately.
Not temperature.
Density.
The lights were dimmer. The corridor narrower.
This part of the hospital didn't pretend everything was okay. That everything would heal eventually.
Here, there was death.
Exhaustion.
Guilt.
The door closed behind me.
The sound echoed longer than it should have.
I stopped walking.
The residue here was thicker.
Something pulled downward. A deep emotional echo pooling down the slope.
I followed it.
The corridor sloped gently. Almost unnoticeable. Like it was trying not to be obvious.
My Perception kept feeding me information I didn't ask for.
A stretcher parked too long.
A wall that remembered someone collapsing against it.
A corner that felt wrong to stand in.
I ignored most of it.
I couldn't afford to process everything.
The hallway split.
One path led to storage rooms.
The other continued downward.
I hesitated.
Then I felt it.
A pressure spike. Sharp. Localized.
I turned toward the storage corridor.
Halfway down, I saw a faint glow in the middle of the hallway.
Emotions pooling around empty space.
Fear pressed into my mind.
All the emotional residue of a hospital—
layered, compressed, overwhelming.
It was—
Too much.
But I kept walking.
Then it happened.
The system finally responded.
A transparent door appeared out of nothing.
Purple light spilled around its edges.
A ghostly weight pressed against my senses.
Hate.
Pain.
Guilt.
And then, a single line of text shattered the silence.
[Dungeon Entrance — Enter?]