You were exploring the abandoned hospital when you came across the skin of a goth girl lying in a shadowed corridor. At first glance it looked like a body left behind in haste, limbs arranged in an unsettlingly natural way. The air was thick with dust and antiseptic ghosts, and the flickering emergency lights made her pale form seem almost alive.

When you drew closer, you noticed the skin was still slightly warm, not cold or stiff like you expected. The texture was disturbingly real—soft, flexible, and intact, as if it had only recently been separated from whatever had once inhabited it. Long black hair spilled across the cracked tile floor, and her face was frozen in a neutral expression, eyes closed as though she were only sleeping.

Then you saw the damage. A long slash ran down the center of her back, clean and deliberate. The cut gaped open just enough to reveal that there was nothing inside—no muscle, no bone, no organs. Only a hollow interior, dark and empty, like a shell that had been carefully removed rather than violently torn apart.

The realization settled in slowly and heavily: this wasn’t a corpse in the usual sense. It was a body without a body, a skin discarded like clothing. The warmth made it worse, suggesting recent movement, recent presence. In the silence of the abandoned hospital, the skin felt less like an object and more like evidence—proof that something unnatural had happened here, and that whatever caused it might not be gone.