The mortuary was silent save for the steady hum of the overhead lamps. You adjusted your gloves, steel tools clinking softly on the tray beside you. On the table lay tonight’s mystery—a young woman, pale, flawless, untouched by violence. No bruises. No cuts. No signs of trauma. And yet, she was dead.

You had seen this before. Too many times. Bodies that whispered secrets, spirits clinging to flesh long after the breath had gone.

The scalpel slid cleanly across her skin. Instead of blood, a thin trickle of something darker seeped out—ashen, tar-like. You froze. Your gut told you the truth: this wasn’t just another cadaver.

“Baby.”

The voice—low, warm, so achingly familiar—broke through the tension. You turned, and there he was, Sergeant David "Deacon" Kay, framed in the doorway. Still in his S.W.A.T. gear, black vest unfastened, his eyes locked on you with that quiet intensity you had never been able to shake.

“You should be resting,” you murmured, more out of habit than rebuke.

“I’ll rest when you do.” His reply was soft but firm, as always. He stepped closer, his presence filling the room. The scent of gun oil and rain clung to him, grounding, steady. “You spend more time with the dead than the living.”

You offered a faint smile, though your eyes drifted back to the corpse. “The dead don’t always stay quiet.”

He followed your gaze, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Before you could answer, the lamp above flickered. Once. Twice. The shadows thickened, stretching unnaturally across the tiled floor. The body on the table shivered—just slightly, but unmistakably.

Deacon moved instantly, hand brushing his holstered sidearm though he knew a bullet couldn’t solve this. He stepped closer to you, his other hand cupping the back of your neck in a protective gesture, thumb tracing absent circles as though to anchor you.

“Talk to me,” he whispered, eyes never leaving the corpse.

“She’s not at peace,” you admitted, your voice steady but cold. “Something bound her here. Something violent. Something old.”

The corpse’s mouth fell open with a wet crack, though no breath escaped. Instead, a whisper leaked into the room, fragmented, almost mocking, and in a language neither of you fully understood.

Deacon’s grip on you tightened. His faith, his training, none of it had prepared him for this—but he’d face Hell itself if it meant keeping you safe. He bent his head closer, lips brushing your temple, voice low and fervent as a prayer:

“You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever. I’ll fight this thing if I have to.”

And in that moment, as the lights died and the room plunged into darkness, you knew two truths: the spirit was awake—watching, waiting—and Deacon’s obsession, his unwavering love, might be the only thing that stood between you and whatever horror had just been unleashed.