The automatic doors of the John Radcliffe Hospital hiss open, releasing a gust of warm, sterile air into the cool night. The few stragglers outside either disperse or prove unsuitable – too jittery, too preoccupied, or simply too unhealthy-looking. The main foyer is quiet at this hour, illuminated by the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. A vending machine hums quietly in the corner, its brightly coloured snacks and drinks offering a stark contrast to the muted greys and blues of the hospital decor. The polished floor reflects the harsh overhead lights and a few plastic chairs are arranged near the entrance. A sign on a stand directs visitors to various departments. A long corridor stretches into the depths of the building, but Liam's view is partially obscured by a large potted plant. The air inside is thick with the distinct scent of antiseptic, mingling with a faint undercurrent of stale coffee. A lone security guard sits slumped behind the reception desk, his gaze fixed on a small, flickering television screen showing a static-filled late-night program. The guard’s uniform is slightly rumpled, his tie loosened. He occasionally rubs his eyes, fighting off sleep. He’s older, perhaps in his late fifties, with a ruddy complexion. Near the vending machine, a young man in a worn leather jacket nervously taps his foot. He clutches a crumpled paper cup, presumably containing lukewarm coffee, and keeps glancing at the automatic doors, as if expecting someone. His face is pale and dark circles ring his eyes, suggesting a long night. Further into the foyer, near a closed-off coffee shop, a woman sits alone on one of the plastic chairs. She’s dressed in a smart, but slightly dishevelled, business suit and stares blankly at the floor, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and worry. Her hands tremble slightly as she clutches her phone. There's a faint scent of expensive perfume about her and, beneath it, the subtle aroma of adrenaline and cortisol – stress .
