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The astringent scent of disinfectant filled the air in the hospital in which Mo Cheng envisioned himself. It was a crisp white ward, lined with a row of beds on each side of the long room. 

The only sources of decoration, if they could be called that, were several cardiac monitors, oxygen tanks, and a small TV that hung from the ceiling. The beds, like everything else, were white, covered in freshly-laundered cotton sheets, matching the sickly pale shade of the walls; everything was lifeless and dull.

There were a few others in the room, children around his age, but he did not recognise their faces. They mattered little to him.

In his mind's eye, he saw the image of his younger self - a bony, frail slip of a child. He peered around from his semi-reclined position on his bed before letting his head fall back onto the pillow with a heavy thump.