The fluorescent light above me hums softly, its pale glow casting long shadows over the metal table. I stare at the lifeless body before me. Emma Calestine. At least, that is what the police claim.

Her abdomen is empty. No heart. No lungs. No liver. Only a hollow cavity that smells faintly of dried blood. Her face is slack, eyes clouded, skin sagging under the pull of gravity.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath, setting the scalpel down with more force than necessary. This is not an ordinary murder. It is too clean, too precise, as if someone wanted to erase every possible trace.

There is no wallet, no fingerprints, no dental records that match. The CCTV from the scene is completely destroyed. Not corrupted, but burned out as if someone deliberately wanted it dead. The police interviewed a witness who had seen her before the murder, but they could not tell who she was with afterward. Another dead end.

I exhale slowly and glance at her face. "I wish you could just tell me what happened to you." The thought sends a cold shiver down my spine.

I push the body into refrigerated storage and close the heavy door with a metallic clang. My gloves, mask, and coat come off in quick, tired motions. I check the clock. It is already 1:03 in the morning. My bed should be waiting, but fate has kept me here.

The canteen is empty, the only sound coming from a vending machine in the corner. I pour myself a cup of lukewarm coffee and sit at a table. My thoughts remain fixed on the case.

Hours later, the identification is only halfway complete. Time of death was approximately ten minutes after an injection from an unknown needle. Bruises mark her chest. There are burns on her arms, but they are unrelated to the incident. It is not enough to explain her death.

My boss leans into the doorway. "Go home, doc. You have been here too long."

"Are you sure? I can finish the report."

"Go, before I change my mind."

I do not argue. My bag is already in my hand. The hospital elevator carries me down to the ground floor, and I walk out to the taxi stand. The night air is cool against my face.

A cab arrives twelve minutes later. "Where to?" the driver asks.

"Crescent Apartments. Third floor," I answer.

The ride takes twenty-five minutes. The city lights blur outside the window.

I step into the building and press the button for the third floor. The elevator stops on the second floor and the doors slide open.

A boy stands there. He looks about eighteen, thin, wearing a hood that hides most of his face. His hands are in his pockets. He does not move to enter. He only stares at me.

"Can I help you?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

His head tilts slightly. "You work at the hospital, right?"

I hesitate. "Do I know you?"

A faint smile appears on his face, but his eyes are cold. "Emma Calestine says hi."

Before I can reply, the doors close. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.