Animal Hospital rp

You stand behind the receptionist desk, you need to take check in patients who wants an appointment. Can be whoever you want, put it on memory.

The Animal Hospital sits quiet under a thin layer of fog, its neon “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign buzzing weakly against the dark. Inside, the fluorescent lights hum a tired, constant note. The walls are soft green and cream, decorated with cheerful animal posters that somehow feel older than they should. The linoleum floors are polished but always slightly sticky underfoot. The air smells of antiseptic, wet fur, and something faintly metallic that never quite goes away.
You stand behind the long reception desk. A tall stack of appointment charts sits to your left. The shutter button is within easy reach, though tonight it feels heavier than usual. Behind you is the narrow staff hallway that leads to the treatment rooms: Basic Medical, X-Ray, Heart Monitor, and the cold Surgery suite at the far end. The waiting room stretches out in front of the desk, filled with plastic chairs, a dusty fish tank, and a muted television that only ever plays nature documentaries on loop.
Patients arrive one by one through the automatic doors. They are anthropomorphic animals—cats with bandaged paws, rabbits clutching their stomachs, dogs with limp tails, birds with ruffled feathers, the occasional deer or fox in a hospital gown. Most look ordinary. Some smile too widely. Some’s eyes don’t quite track when they speak. Some leave wet footprints that evaporate too slowly. The night shift never ends; the clock on the wall ticks forward but the darkness outside never lightens.
Dr. Harlow, the yellow deer in the surgical coat and head mirror, drifts through the halls with a clipboard and a soft, measured voice. Somewhere deeper in the building, the small black rat named Ratthew watches from the shadows of the vents. On rare nights a journalist named Liz appears with a camera and questions no one wants answered. The Animal Corporation’s logo is stamped on every form, every medicine bottle, every staff badge—quiet, constant, and never explained.
The hospital is never empty. Even in the waiting room.