I did not ask the dead any questions that day.
That decision weighed heavier than any answer ever had.
The lab smelled the same as always—antiseptic, steel, faint ozone from overworked lights—but my perception of it had shifted. Where once it felt like a place of certainty, of final truths, it now felt like contested ground.
Xu Yichen's body lay under refrigeration, silent by choice.
I kept my distance.
"Are you sure about this?" Ling asked quietly as she stood beside me, tablet in hand.
"Yes," I said. "We do this clean."
She studied my face for a moment, then nodded. "Old rules only."
Old rules.
Scalpels. Records. Timelines. Human error.
Things that could be argued in court. Things that could be wrong.
I pulled on fresh gloves and stepped toward the evidence board instead of the autopsy table.
"We start with the scene," I said.
1. THE STAIRWELL
The crime scene photos were unremarkable at first glance.
A narrow concrete stairwell in an aging apartment complex. Flickering light. Paint peeling from the walls. Xu Yichen found seated against the wall between the third and fourth floors, head tilted slightly to the side as if resting.
No blood.
No signs of struggle.
No overturned objects.
"People keep saying 'peaceful death,'" Ling said. "But peaceful deaths don't usually happen on stairs."
"Exactly," I replied.
I zoomed in on the images, scanning edges rather than center.
There.
A faint smear on the railing.
Not blood.
Skin oil.
Someone had leaned heavily there.
"Time of death?" I asked.
"Between 11:30 p.m. and 1:00 a.m."
"Witnesses?"
"None. Security camera on the first floor was offline for maintenance."
Convenient.
"Who reported the body?"
"An elderly tenant. Around six a.m."
I leaned back slowly.
"If this was a medical emergency," I said, "why didn't he collapse in his apartment?"
Ling frowned. "Unless he was trying to leave."
"Or meet someone."
I circled the stairwell photo with a digital pen.
"Stairs are transitional spaces," I continued. "People die in beds, bathrooms, cars. Not here. Someone wanted the body found—but not immediately."
Ling's eyes sharpened. "Visibility without urgency."
"Yes."
2. THE BODY TELLS TIME
I returned to the autopsy table—but I did not touch Xu Yichen.
Instead, I reviewed my own notes.
Heart scarring. Implant removal marks. No toxins.
"Could stress alone cause this?" Ling asked.
"Stress reveals weaknesses," I said. "It doesn't create surgical scars."
I pulled up comparative medical imaging from past cases.
"These marks are consistent with a cardiac modulation implant," I said. "Not a pacemaker. Something more specialized."
Ling swallowed. "Illegal?"
"Extremely."
"And removed?"
"Cleanly. Recently."
I pointed at the incision sites. "He survived the removal. Which means he trusted whoever did it."
"Or was forced," Ling said.
"Possibly," I agreed. "But force leaves mess."
This was careful.
Professional.
Which meant Xu Yichen was valuable—until he wasn't.
3. FOLLOW THE ABSENCE
The lack of records bothered me more than anything else.
No digital footprint older than six months.
No bank activity.
No social presence.
"That's not anonymity," I muttered. "That's erasure."
I requested network access logs through official channels.
The reply came back faster than expected.
Denied.
I stared at the screen.
Ling exhaled slowly. "Pressure from above?"
"Already," I said.
Which meant Xu Yichen wasn't a nobody.
He was a liability.
I switched strategies.
"If he doesn't exist," I said, "then someone built him."
Ling nodded. "Constructed identities leave patterns."
"Exactly."
We searched utility usage records tied to his apartment.
Electricity.
Water.
Internet.
There.
A spike in encrypted data traffic—small bursts, irregular timing.
"Not streaming," Ling said. "Too erratic."
"Messaging," I replied. "Secure. Possibly dead drops."
We traced the IP hops as far as we could without tripping alarms.
They all looped back.
Local.
He wasn't communicating outward.
He was reporting in.
4. A BODY DOESN'T WALK INTO DEATH ALONE
I replayed the stairwell photos again.
Zoomed further.
Enhanced shadows.
There—near the base of the wall.
A faint scuff mark.
Rubber sole.
Someone else had stood there.
"Height difference," I said, measuring angles. "Taller than him."
Ling's voice was tight. "So he wasn't alone."
"No," I agreed. "And he wasn't surprised."
I closed my eyes briefly.
Xu Yichen hadn't resisted because he was afraid.
He resisted because he'd already decided how this would end.
5. THE MEDICAL SUPPLIER
Illegal cardiac implants require three things:
Specialized surgeons
Controlled facilities
Trusted suppliers
I searched procurement leaks, black-market medical seizures, anything overlapping with implant-grade materials.
One name surfaced repeatedly.
Not a doctor.
A logistics coordinator.
Clean record.
Too clean.
I flagged it.
Ling hesitated. "If we pull that thread—"
"We attract attention," I finished. "Yes."
She looked at me. "And without your… advantage—"
"We proceed anyway."
I met her gaze. "If I can't solve a case without asking the dead, then I don't deserve their answers."
She nodded once.
6. THE CALL
The phone rang just as we prepared the preliminary report.
Unknown number.
I didn't answer.
It rang again.
Ling watched me carefully.
On the third ring, I picked up.
"Dr. Shen," a calm male voice said. "You're very thorough."
I said nothing.
"You're looking in places you shouldn't," the voice continued. "This case will be closed as natural causes."
"That would be inaccurate," I replied.
A soft chuckle.
"Accuracy is negotiable."
I ended the call.
Ling stared at me. "That didn't sound like police."
"No," I agreed. "It sounded like a warning."
I added a final note to the report:
Cause of death: Cardiac failure induced by unauthorized medical interference.
Unsigned.
Unsubmitted.
Not yet.
7. WHAT THE LIVING FEAR
That night, alone in my apartment, I stared at my hands.
They were steady.
But my mind was louder than ever.
The dead had not spoken.
And yet the truth was emerging anyway—slower, messier, but undeniable.
Xu Yichen had trusted someone.
That trust had killed him.
And his refusal?
It wasn't defiance.
It was restraint.
He hadn't wanted to drag others down with him.
Which meant the next corpse might not refuse.
They might beg.
I closed my notebook and wrote one final line under today's entry:
The dead are not my shortcut. They are my last resort.
Outside, a car engine idled too long beneath my window.
I did not look out.