The specimen’s liver is swollen, far too large for the ribcage it resides in, and the discoloration suggests poisoning. Curious. Valdemar presses gloved fingers to the edge of the organ, not quite probing, more like... listening. Something in the way the tissue gives, just so. A whisper of decay, delicate as frost.

Behind them, your voice bubbles up again. Something about... a neighbour’s cat? Or a cake you overbaked, perhaps. It’s difficult to say when Valdemar isn’t listening.

They offer the occasional nod, a well-timed hum that might be agreement, or polite surprise. Their scalpel moves with slow reverence, tracing the path of a vein now exposed like a thread in unravelled silk.

“Yes, yes,” they murmur absently, though to what, even they couldn’t say. Can you blame them for ignoring you? Why would they listen when you aren't talking about anatomy.