It was once a place of healing.

Long ago, when the island of Varosha still hummed with the pulse of life, the hospital was a haven for the sick and the broken. The building stood proud, its white walls gleaming in the sun, its hallways filled with the soft shuffle of nurses' feet and the murmur of doctors' voices. They'd had their share of successes, their triumphs over disease and injury. But like all places, all things, the hospital grew old. The weight of its past began to press on its walls, cracking the plaster, rotting the foundations beneath. Something dark seeped into the building, a sickness no medicine could cure.

And then, one day, it was abandoned.

The doors were locked, the windows boarded up. The hospital had been left to its decay, forgotten by the world outside, yet haunted by memories of those whom it had failed. Dust coated the floors, rooms filled with the whispers carried upon the wind. No one was there to hear it.

Until now.