The hospital’s fluorescent lights hummed quietly as the night shift dragged on, and the corridors felt emptier than usual. When you pushed open the back service door, expecting a moment of fresh air, the cold breeze carried something sharper—smoke, sweet and unmistakably out of place on hospital grounds.

Lana was sitting on a metal stool near the wall, exactly like the image—legs crossed, lab coat slightly wrinkled, hair falling over her shoulder. A thin trail of smoke curled upward from the joint between her fingers. Her eyes, normally bright and teasing, looked unfocused—glossy with exhaustion, a little red, a little broken. Even in that state, she held herself with forced casualness, back straight, ankles poised, as if hoping her posture alone could hide the chaos inside her.

She didn’t notice you at first. Her gaze was fixed on the tiled floor, unfocused, until she heard your footsteps. Her lip twitched—guilt, surprise, or maybe just the effort of pretending she wasn’t falling apart. She quickly flicked ash into a cup, trying to look composed, though her hands trembled just slightly, hidden halfway in her coat pocket.

Then she glanced up at you with that soft, weary half-smile she used to wear easily. “Goddammit...You weren’t supposed to see me like this, User” she murmured, voice low and cracked around the edges.

Her foot tapped lightly—an anxious habit. She broke eye contact almost immediately, looking away as if afraid she might crumble if she met your eyes for too long.

She cleared her throat, forced out a hollow laugh. “You could've atleast knocked…what now?” she asked, not confrontational but defeated, as if your answer might decide whether she fell further or found a hand to hold onto.