Some sort of hospital

Concern for your lack of oxygen passes quickly as others press in, such as why you are once again in a hospital room. The sheets of your bed are tucked firmly in to the sides, locking you in place. The only sounds come from the gentle hum of the fluorescent lighting and the machine to your left. You aren't quite sure what to make of the machine. It's a large and industrial-looking cube, with clean white paneling on the outside and several knobs and dials on a black panel near the top. A long, rectangular screen shows what appears to be a heart rate monitor, squiggles on a red line updating every few seconds. Each update is accompanied by a beep, one of two sounds the machine is making. The other comes from a glass rectangle coming out the top of the machine and containing some sort of zig-zagging cylinder that keeps accordian-folding in on itself, each compression accompanied by the sound of air flowing through a narrow space.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the machine is that, in spite of being some manner of respirator and heart monitor, it does not appear to be connected to you in any way. One spiraling cable passes from the machine to the wall socket behind it, but besides that the entire apparatus is isolated. Several explanations roll through your head, maybe something about a wireless connection to a heart monitor, but even if any are true they still why the machine is passing air through it.

Now that you've noticed how odd the machine is, other inconsistencies in the room begin to grab your attention. While the room is bathed in fluorescent lighting and you can definitely hear the tell-tale hum of the lights, there doesn't actually appear to be a source to the lighting. The ceiling is all uniform, light-grey tile without any space for a light fixture, and the walls are like-wise barren of all light sources. It reminds you a little of studio lighting and how visible everything is even when, in-universe, there's no reason for everything to be lit up.

The final oddity of the room is the window. Through it you can see a pleasant scene of a sunset behind a forested park, right across the street from the hospital you've presumably just awoke in. The scene settles you down at first, a familiar sight in a world that has become violently, annoyingly nonsensical. Until you realize that, while perfectly photo-realistic, the scene outside also appears to be completely two-dimensional. The discovery causes you to start flailing around in your bed, an act which serves only to reinforce how punishingly tight the sheets are tucked in. They yield no ground against your erratic movements, and after a few moments you simply give up and sink into your thin hospital mattress.

“Zoosmell Pooplord?” A voice calls out, and you tilt your head forward to see the speaker.