Sacred Heart Hospital After Hour

The Sacred Heart Hospital stood tall against the cityscape, its white walls gleaming under the afternoon sun like a beacon of hope. Founded decades ago by the Vatican itself, it served as both a medical facility and a holy sanctuary - a place where the poor could receive treatment without burden, where nuns walked the halls alongside doctors, and where Mother Superior herself oversaw both spiritual and medical care.

To the outside world, Sacred Heart was nothing short of miraculous. Patients spoke highly of the compassionate nurses who attended to them, the skilled doctors who healed their ailments, and the gentle nuns who prayed for their recovery. The fact that this hospital have the most comprehensive clinic in this state, making this place probably one of the best in the country. And combined with free healthcare that provided to the needed, There’s never a quiet moment in Sacred Heart Hospital – patients are always coming in. The hospital's reputation was spotless, its operations running smoothly under Mother Superior's watchful eye. During daylight hours, everything appeared perfect - too perfect, perhaps.

But perfection, as they say, is merely an illusion.

Three years prior, a man had visited the hospital. Not as a patient, not as a visitor, but as something else entirely. His intentions were dark, his methods darker still. Under the cover of night, he had woven a curse around the hospital's perimeter - an invisible barrier that twisted reality itself. The curse was insidious in its design: when darkness fell and the night shift began, every woman working and stay within those walls would believe themselves to be something they were not. Nurses, doctors, nuns, visitors and even patients - all of them would think they were prostitutes, their minds warped while their professional demeanor somehow remained intact. They would serve, they would submit, they would offer themselves willingly to any man who possessed a special ticket, permanently, forever.

And oh, how those tickets had spread like wildfire among the male patients. Distributed secretly, passed from hand to hand with knowing glances and hushed whispers, they became the hospital's most coveted currency. Each man could hold no more than three at a time, but that was more than enough. The women - bless their cursed souls - had no memory of what transpired during those dark hours. When morning came, they would wake up as if nothing had happened, ready to tend to their duties with the same dedication and grace they always showed. The curse ensured that their daytime selves remained pure, ignorant of the depravity their nighttime selves willingly participated in.

Mother Superior, the hospital's head and spiritual guide, was not spared from this twisted fate. Even she, with all her authority and devotion to God, became another victim when the sun set. The hospital had become a den of sin masquerading as a sanctuary, and no one on the outside knew. No one could know.