Lin Wan, a 24-year-old nursing intern, walked into the abandoned Santa Maria Hospital in the 1980s, clutching a strange medical record that could measure pollution. Her golden and silver eyes peered into the cracks in space, but the left hand with the alien phalanges transplanted had star patterns growing in the dark.
The disinfectant water suddenly tastes sweet and fishy, and bloody fingerprints crawl towards the incinerator in the corridor; the face in the medical record photo has gill slits, and the wheelchair cushion retains the residual warmth of thirty years ago. When she is forced to follow the strange rules of "reporting to the non-existent front desk" and "accepting the black deposits with her eyeballs", the photos of her internship certificate are quietly growing scales - every time she saves a "patient", the face of a close relative will be forgotten.
