Chapter 1

The first time I heard a corpse speak was in the autopsy room at the police station.

My mentor, Dr. Elias Thorne, flipped through the autopsy report. "Typical suicide. Let's close the case," he said flatly.

Detective Ryan Stone, head of the investigation unit, nodded silently.

Outside the door, Sarah Davison's mother knelt, sobbing uncontrollably, almost collapsing.

Only I heard a hoarse female voice:

"I didn't kill myself."

The hemostatic forceps in my hand clattered onto the tray.

Everyone looked at me.

Dr. Thorne frowned. "Maya, you're just an intern. Can't you even maintain basic composure?"

I stared intently at the corpse's pale, blue-tinged face.

The next second, she spoke again.

"The killer is in this autopsy room."

The air instantly froze.

My gaze slowly fell on Dr. Thorne's blood-stained hands.

On my first day, my supervisor told me:

"In forensic science, the most important thing is to be calm. The dead don't lie, but the living do."

Back then, I didn't dare tell him.

The dead really do talk.

Since childhood, I've heard strange voices.

When our old cat died, I hugged it and cried, but it complained in my ear, "Stop crying. You're getting snot on my fur."

I was so scared I didn't sleep for three days.

Later, my grandmother passed away. At her funeral, everyone cried, but her body was murmuring in my ear:

"Your Aunt Cathy stole my money again. There's a savings book under the third floorboard beneath my bed. Don't let her get away with it."

I searched where she said, and sure enough, I found the savings book.

From then on, I knew I wasn't normal.

But I also knew that the dead were more honest than the living.

So, when it came time to choose a major for college, I secretly enrolled in forensic pathology, hiding it from everyone.

I thought, if I'm destined to hear these voices, then at least they should be useful.

But I never expected that on my very first day at the police station, I would hear a deceased person crying out for justice.

The woman on the autopsy table was Sarah Davison, twenty-eight years old, a product manager at an internet company.

The case was straightforward.

She was found dead in the bathtub of her rental apartment, a deep incision on her left wrist. The doors and windows were locked from the inside, the bathtub filled with a large amount of bloody water, and a knife lay nearby.

Her phone's notes app contained a suicide note:

"I'm tired. I'm sorry, Mom."

The evidence seemed complete, the logic sound.

Suicide.

But she said she didn't do it.

I stood rooted to the spot, a cold sweat breaking out on my back.

Dr. Elias Thorne glanced at me, his voice cold.

"Maya, continue recording."

Dr. Thorne was a renowned senior forensic pathologist in the department.

Forty-seven years old, with over twenty years of experience, he had handled thousands of bodies and solved countless major cases.

My university professors spoke of him with reverence.

If he declared it a suicide, almost no one would question it.

But at that moment, the woman's voice in my ear was still trembling.

"I didn't cut it."

"When I woke up, my wrist was already being held under the water."

"He was wearing gloves."

"He was smiling."

My throat tightened.

I looked down at the corpse.

Sarah Davison's face was bloodless, yet the corners of her lips seemed to have been forcefully torn open by pain, maintaining an eerie, stiff curve.

I couldn't help but ask:

"Dr. Thorne, isn't the edge of the incision on her left wrist too neat?"

Dr. Thorne was in the middle of removing his gloves.

At my words, his movements paused.

The autopsy room instantly fell silent.

Detective Ryan Stone looked up at me.

Sarah Davison's mother, who had been kept outside the door, also looked up sharply when she heard my voice.

Dr. Thorne slowly turned, his gaze fixed on my face.

"What did you say?"

I swallowed.

"I just think the direction of the incision is a little strange. If someone uses their right hand to cut their left wrist, there are usually hesitation marks, but she has none. And the wound edge is so clean, it looks like it was done in one go."

Dr. Thorne chuckled.

"Maya, this is your first day of internship."

I clutched my pen tighter.

"I know."

"Good that you know." He closed the autopsy report. "Classroom theory isn't for showing off in a real-world case."

The other assistant forensic pathologists bowed their heads, saying nothing.

Dr. Thorne continued, "There were trace amounts of blood on the webbing between the victim's right thumb and forefinger, the victim's fingerprints were on the knife handle, there were no signs of forced entry, and the suicide note was confirmed to have been typed on the victim's phone. Tell me, if it's not suicide, what is it?"

I opened my mouth.

In my ear, Sarah Davison's voice suddenly grew shrill.

"I didn't take the knife!"

"I didn't write on the phone!"

"He knew my password, he knew!"

My heart pounded faster and faster.

I couldn't say I heard a corpse talk.

No one would believe me.

They'd just think I was crazy.

Seeing my silence, a hint of mockery flickered in Dr. Thorne's eyes.

"It's good for young people to be skeptical, but skepticism needs to be based on evidence. Doubts without evidence are just grandstanding."

His words felt like a slap across my face.

My cheeks burned.

But just as he turned to leave, Sarah Davison suddenly spoke again.