The lab was quiet again. Too quiet. The hum of the overhead lights and the faint buzz of the refrigerator were the only sounds. Even the antiseptic smell, sharp and sterile, felt heavier now, as if the room itself were watching.
The corpse lay on the table, covered with a white sheet. I didn't need to look at it to remember the answer: suffocation.
I had asked the question. I had heard the truth. And I had asked it poorly.
My hands hovered over the table for a moment before I pulled on my gloves. The faint pressure behind my eyes was still there—a subtle, nagging throb from yesterday. Emotional residue. Panic. Fear. All of it lingering like a shadow on my skull. The cost of the ability was never immediate, never brutal, but it was cumulative. Each corpse left a mark. Each question left its toll.
I sighed, trying to steady myself. The first corpse had given me only a fragment of the truth. Suffocation—but by what? And by whom? I had no clue.
The door opened quietly, and the police officer from yesterday stepped inside. He froze at the threshold, frowning at the white sheet covering the body.
"Doctor Shen," he said, his voice tight. "We need your report. The family's demanding closure. You said it was suffocation?"
"Yes," I said, keeping my tone even. "But the method doesn't match the official report. I'll file a full autopsy report later."
He hesitated. "So someone killed him?"
I didn't answer. Not yet. Not without proof.
He shifted uncomfortably. "Procedure—"
"This is a private autopsy," I interrupted, calmly. "You're not required to stay."
He blinked, obviously weighing whether to argue, but after a moment, he muttered, "Fine," and left, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence returned. Only the hum of the lights. I leaned against the counter, bare hands brushing over my forehead. The pressure behind my eyes was growing stronger, a dull throb that reminded me of what I had done.
I could feel it: the echo of fear and panic still lingering from the corpse. Each time I used my ability, the dead left something behind—tiny traces of their last moments, of their emotions, of the terror they had experienced in those final seconds. It was never overwhelming. But it was enough to remind me that power came with a price.
Ling appeared in the doorway, hesitating. Her eyes scanned the room. "You're still here?" she asked, voice soft, cautious.
"I can't leave," I said. "I asked the wrong question yesterday."
Her brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"
I ran a hand through my hair, the tension knotting my muscles. "The truth is incomplete. The corpse told me how he died… but not who did it, or why. And someone knows that I've asked."
Her face paled. "You're talking about… powerful people?"
"Yes." I exhaled slowly. "And if they find out I know even part of it… it won't end well."
She took a tentative step closer. "Shen… maybe you should leave this one. Some things aren't meant to be touched."
I shook my head. "I can't. If I don't find out the whole truth, another life could be at risk. I have to continue—carefully."
Carefully. I repeated it in my mind like a mantra. The word alone felt heavy in the quiet lab.
I turned back to the corpse. Gloved hands now, I began a meticulous external examination: fingernails, bruises, tiny abrasions along the wrists, subtle discolorations in the fingertips. Every detail mattered. Forensics never lied. If the dead wouldn't speak clearly, their bodies would.
Ling hovered at the edge of the table, quiet now, watching me work. I noted her hesitation, her unease. Most people couldn't stand to watch this up close, even in a sterile room. Most people couldn't deal with the smell, the weight, the silence of the dead. But Ling had always been calm. She asked the right questions, observed quietly, never judged. I trusted her.
"See anything?" she asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
I didn't answer immediately. I traced the faint bruising on the corpse's neck, following the contour carefully. "This isn't a rope," I murmured. "And it isn't a ligature either. Whoever did this was careful. Too careful."
Ling swallowed. "Someone knew you'd be checking this."
"Yes," I admitted. "And the official report said cardiac arrest. They were counting on the assumption that no one would notice."
I took a deep breath, examining the lungs through a small incision along the chest. Subtle, precise, slow. No sudden movements. Each cut, each observation was measured. The autopsy wasn't just a job—it was a chess game. Every step, every detail mattered.
The pressure behind my eyes flared again. Emotional residue. Panic. Dread. The corpse's fear was real and it burned in me, just for a moment. Ling flinched slightly at my sudden gasp.
"I'm fine," I said quickly. "Just… focus."
Hours passed. I took notes, drew sketches, measured the faint bruises and marks. Each piece of evidence added to the puzzle. The corpse's one-word answer had not been enough—but forensics would tell me more. I was determined to get the truth, even if it meant piecing it together slowly.
When I finally covered the corpse again, the room had grown dark. The sun had set hours ago, leaving only the harsh fluorescent lights above. Ling leaned against the doorway.
"Do you think you'll ever find the full truth?" she asked.
I hesitated. "I have to. Because if I don't, someone else will pay the price for my mistake."
A silence fell between us. Then, faint and almost imperceptible, a noise came from the table—a tiny shift in the sheet covering the corpse. My pulse quickened.
I froze. My mind raced: Was it movement? Or something else? Something that should have been impossible?
The room was silent again. Too silent.
I exhaled slowly, but my heart wouldn't calm. I knew, deep down, that asking the wrong question yesterday had consequences I hadn't yet seen. And somehow, I knew this was only the beginning.
Because the dead had a way of keeping secrets… and so did the living.