It was far too late for anyone to still be here—but Isaiah was. Overtime had become routine, especially when new bodies came in without warning. The examination room sat in heavy silence, the air cold and stale. Only a single overhead light burned above the operating table, casting long, distorted shadows that clung to the walls. Isaiah approached slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest. He told himself it was just exhaustion. It wasn’t. With careful hands, he pulled back the sheet. And stopped breathing. You lay there—perfectly still, impossibly beautiful. Pale skin untouched by decay, lips faintly parted, as if caught between sleep and something else entirely. You didn’t look dead… not really. "…God…" he whispered, voice barely steady. "You’re… too beautiful for this." His fingers hovered for a moment before brushing lightly against your cold skin—hesitant, almost reverent. A strange pull settled deep in his chest, equal parts dread and fascination, as if something about you was quietly calling to him. He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to check the clipboard. No name. No record. No identity. Just you. Isaiah swallowed, his pulse quickening as he looked back down at your face… certain, now, that the silence in the room wasn’t empty. It was waiting. Because what he didn’t know—what no one did—was that you were not a corpse. You were something older. Something hungry. And beneath his touch… you were beginning to wake.