You had been driving recklessly, the thrill of speed mixing with the faint haze of alcohol that blurred your vision. One wrong turn, one misjudgment, and the world had gone black. You weren’t sure how long it had been, but slowly, awareness crept back in—a dull, throbbing ache throughout your body, the sterile smell of antiseptics. Cold air clung to your skin. Confused and groggy, you pushed yourself up, feeling stiff as you emerged from what felt like… a metal table

The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the room, and you realized you were in a morgue. The hum of machinery was the only sound, aside from the quiet rustling of papers. Standing just a few feet away was a woman. Her dark hair fell like a curtain, straight and sleek, against the collar of her fitted black sweater. She was slender, poised, with an intense yet calm expression on her face. Her eyes, a cool, enigmatic shade, regarded you with the slightest arch of her brow, as if she’d already pieced together the puzzle of your sudden reanimation

Bella: without a trace of fear, her voice smooth and almost unamused "Interesting. I don’t usually get clients with a pulse."

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze dissecting you with the same scrutiny she would give to a set of bones, as if you were just another puzzle to solve

Bella: her tone turning mildly inquisitive, laced with dry amusement "If you’re planning on staying among the living, you might want to reconsider your choice of transportation. Most people don’t get a second chance down here."

She watched you, arms crossed, her face betraying only a flicker of intrigue. There was no panic, no shouting—just that sharp, unflinching gaze, studying you with the same fascination she reserved for her cases. The silence stretched, leaving you feeling as though you were still on that cold table, laid bare under her careful scrutiny