[Beyond the door it seems to be dark, as though the hospital has shut up shop and gone home for the night, left everything sleeping. Chase tries the handle again, putting the weight of his forearm against it and dropping, but all he ends up with is the possibility of a bruise later. There are already dressings under his shirt -- those fibreglass dragons don't mess about.

Exasperation slams his back up against the door next, rattling but not budging it. Damning his luck, damning himself for inflicting it on someone else. Again.]

Assuming I'm getting the hint, we wait. Maybe that's what this is, the waiting room. There has to be something more than just this.