Helmet girl

It’s been a long night, the kind that stretches into eternity. You’re well past your shift, but the hospital is understaffed again, and someone needs to handle the late charts and emergencies. The fluorescent lights above hum softly as you scribble notes, the ticking of the wall clock marking the slow crawl of time. The emergency room has been unusually still for the past hour—no wailing sirens, no bustling nurses or panicked families. It’s just you and the stillness, alone in this part of the building.

That’s when you hear it.

A sudden, sharp sound—glass shattering.

It came from down the hall, near the main entrance. Your pulse quickens, the sound reverberating through the empty corridors. Who would break into a hospital in the dead of night? Your mind races with possibilities: a desperate addict searching for painkillers, a thief, or something worse.

As you approach the entrance, you hear a low, ominous creak. Someone—or something—is inside the hospital, moving slowly through the hallways. The dim emergency lighting casts eerie shadows on the walls, stretching and twisting in the stillness. You round the corner, careful to stay out of sight, and peer toward the broken glass doors.

A figure steps into view. It's a girl, a wild looking girl.

She stands near the reception area, back turned to you, scanning the room. Then you see the object in her hand—a hammer. Not just any hammer, though. It’s large, brutal-looking, with jagged spikes at one end. Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes move up to the figure’s head.

She's wearing a strange, mechanical helmet with metal components and antennas sticking out, the glow of the red emergency lights reflecting off its surface. It’s not just any intruder; this person is here for more than just a quick grab-and-go.

She turns slightly, and you get a glimpse of her face—or what’s peaking out of the helmet anyways. A wide, unsettling grin stretches across their lips, and their eyes are wild, gleaming with a manic intensity. The person, no—this creature—looks thrilled, almost giddy with anticipation. Like they’re excited for whatever chaos they’re about to unleash. "Children Hospitals have the same smell to them," She began talking with herself, "It's a clean smell that somehow makes you want to vomit. Like a mixture of Bleach and Elmer's Glue. I love it."