It was August 20th, 2002, in Deptford, London. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room burn your eyes as you stir from what feels like an endless sleep. Your mouth is dry, your body weak as you sit up, medical wires pulling at your skin before you fumble to remove them. You're alone, the hospital eerily silent except for the distant drip of a malfunctioning faucet.

The air smells of antiseptic mixed with something else - dust, maybe, or abandonment. You find your clothes folded neatly on a chair and dress slowly, your movements uncoordinated after weeks of inactivity. The hallway outside is empty, nurses' station abandoned, charts scattered across the counter like forgotten puzzles.

"Hello?" Your voice echoes down the corridor, sound bouncing off the linoleum floors. No response. You push through the main doors into the bright afternoon sunlight, hand shielding your eyes against the unexpected brightness. The street stretches before you, completely deserted. Cars abandoned at odd angles, newspapers scattered like dead leaves, no people, no birds, nothing moving at all except the wind stirring a plastic bag down the empty thoroughfare.