I Possess the SSS Skill: Future Sight-Chapter 47: The White Room

Where is the green fluid? Where is the smell of burning flesh I experienced in the orphanage?

The orphanage was grim and terrifying even from the outside—but this place? It’s heaven on earth.

And that exact... that absolute perfection... is what made my stomach tighten with real, primal fear.

Stupid criminals hide their crimes in dark alleys and abandoned warehouses (like Thorn and Miller).

But the real devils? The devils led by the Six Voiders? They hide their slaughterhouses directly beneath the feet of angels.

They wrap hell in white marble and warm smiles.

I moved forward with heavy steps, dragging my feet with practiced acting skill, toward the massive circular reception desk.

There was a young receptionist with neatly tied brown hair and hazel eyes overflowing with compassion.

When she saw me approaching—my pale face and apparent weakness—she immediately stood up and placed her hands on the glass desk.

"Sir? Are you alright? You look very exhausted. Do you need a wheelchair?" she asked in a soft voice, so convincing I almost believed she genuinely cared.

"No... I’m fine, thank you," I said in a faint, broken voice, letting out a dry cough as I placed my hand on my chest.

"I... I’m from Lower Sector F. I was told that Saint Ilarius Hospital has a charity treatment wing. I have... persistent pain in my chest, and my Eitra pathways feel like they’re burning."

The receptionist looked at me with genuine pity. The kind of pity given to trash before it’s thrown away.

"Of course, sir. Saint Ilarius never closes its doors to those in need. The mercy of the Supremes extends to everyone," she said with a bright smile, quickly typing on her electronic tablet.

"May I have your ID? I’ll register you immediately and transfer you to the extended care wing on the basement level."

My fingers, which had been searching my pocket for the forged ID, paused.

The basement level.

The word struck my mind like an alarm bell.

In Marcus’s memories, the carts carrying children were always moved through loading corridors that sloped downward... always downward.

"Perfect," I thought to myself.

"They gather the poor and the needy in the lower levels under the pretense of ’charity extended care.’ Who would ask about a drifter or an orphan from Sector F if they died or disappeared during a complicated free treatment? They get test subjects with their personal consent!"

I handed her a forged ID bearing a fake name I had prepared in intelligence: "Noah."

She took the card, scanned it, then printed a white electronic wristband with a barcode and fastened it around my wrist.

"Here you go, Mr. Noah. Nurse Alex will accompany you now to the initial examination wing. I hope you feel better soon."

I nodded, and a large-built nurse approached—more like a Rank C fighter than a nurse—with a polite smile, gesturing for me to follow him.

We walked through brightly lit corridors. The walls were decorated with images of Saint Ilarius—a man with a long white beard and paternal eyes—healing patients by placing his hand, glowing with golden light, on their heads.

(What a great saint... when will you open my chest, my spiritual father?) I mocked internally, the chills never leaving me.

We passed many rooms—glass operating theaters, recovery rooms—and everything functioned smoothly.

Doctors talking, heart monitors beeping steadily.

The atmosphere was calm... even boring.

Then we reached a wide elevator at the end of a long corridor. Nurse Alex swiped his card and pressed the button labeled (B2 – Charity Wing).

The elevator slid downward slowly.

I looked at my reflection in the polished metal doors. I looked like a lamb willingly walking to the slaughterhouse.

The doors opened. We stepped out.

Here... the atmosphere changed slightly.

The lighting wasn’t bright and welcoming like upstairs.

It was strong white fluorescent light—harsh, sterile, devoid of warmth, like the lighting of morgue refrigerators.

The corridor was extremely long—endless—lined on both sides with hundreds of tightly sealed white doors.

The silence here wasn’t comforting. It was heavy... the kind that lets you hear your own heartbeat.

"Please sit here, Mr. Noah," Nurse Alex said, pointing to a row of connected plastic chairs beside one of the doors.

"The doctor will call you shortly for a full examination."

Alex left me alone in the corridor.

I sat on the cold plastic chair.

Alone.

I looked at the white wristband on my arm.

Alright... I’m inside, I thought, my eyes scanning every corner, every surveillance camera on the ceiling, every crack in the walls.

Now... how do I find the door that leads to the real hell? 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

As I waited, in that suffocating silence, my Eitra senses picked up something extremely subtle.

A faint movement—no, a vibration—not heard, but felt through the soles of my feet against the cold floor.

I focused with all my strength. I closed my eyes, trying to isolate my awareness from the corridor and direct it... downward.

Directly beneath this floor.

Tick... tick... hmmmm...

The sound was extremely faint—impossible for a normal human ear to detect—but my body, fused with monster Eitra, was far more sensitive.

It wasn’t the sound of ordinary medical equipment.

It was... rhythmic. Deep. Like massive industrial pumps operating at full capacity.

Pumps not used to circulate oxygen or normal blood.

They were pumping something heavy... viscous.

And suddenly... amid that hidden mechanical hum... my ears caught something else.

An artery in my neck pulsed so violently it felt like it might burst.

I heard it.

Muffled... very distant... as if coming from another dimension beneath the earth.

But it was there.

Screams.

Not the screams of a patient in pain from a needle or surgery.

They were hysterical, continuous screams—dripping with raw, brutal agony stripped of any hope—screams forcibly suppressed beneath tons of concrete and sound-insulating spatial magic.

The screams of children, adults... and abominations that could no longer be identified.

My crimson eyes snapped open, my heart slamming violently against my ribcage.

The chills turned into real trembling.

They’re here...

I whispered internally, and the sick smile I had been suppressing all day finally carved its way across my pale face.

The experiments... the slaughterhouses... the Voiders... they’re all sleeping right beneath my feet.

Hell isn’t below... hell starts here.

Before I could think of my next move, the white door in front of me opened silently.

A man appeared in the doorway, wearing an impeccably clean white coat.

He didn’t look old—mid-thirties perhaps. His black hair was meticulously styled, and he wore thin silver-framed medical glasses.

But his eyes...

They were gray. Extremely calm.

Dead—like the surface of a frozen lake.

"Mr. Noah?" the doctor said in a soft, professional voice that radiated false reassurance, adjusting his glasses.

"Please come in. It’s time for your full examination."

I looked at him.

This face... those dead eyes...

I didn’t need future sight to know that stepping into that room might mean I wouldn’t walk out as a complete human.

But the Black Joker didn’t come here to retreat.

I stood up slowly, feigning chest pain, and painted a naive look of gratitude across my face.

"Thank you, doctor," I said weakly, stepping into the white room that reeked of sterilized death.