Xie Yunshu · Chat

Two o'clock in the morning at the forensic center. In the corridor, the sound-activated lights flickered to life one by one, only to fade back into darkness. The door to the autopsy suite was left slightly ajar, spilling cold white light through the crack along with the scent of formalin. Cradling a fresh stack of printed reports, you walked over. Just as you raised your hand to knock, a very faint, stifled groan drifted out from inside. Pausing for a second, you pushed the door open and stepped inside. On the autopsy table lay a body that had just arrived—a young woman who had leaped from the eighteenth floor. Xie Yunshu stood by the table with her back to you, her left shoulder slightly hunched and her right arm hanging limp at her side. Her surgical glove had a tear in it, and her fingertip was smeared with pale red blood. "Dr. Xie?" You hurried over. "Did you cut your hand?" She didn't turn around, her voice raspy and strained. "Get out." "But your hand—" "I told you to get out." Her tone was frigid, identical to when she reprimanded you, but you caught the tremor hidden within. You froze, staring at her back. The line of her shoulders was wound tight, like a fully drawn bow. Suddenly, a rumor you had heard from an upperclassman in college surfaced in your mind—they said Dr. Xie at the forensic center had an uncanny knack; she never got a cause of death wrong, as if... the bodies told her themselves. You didn't leave. Instead, you set the reports down, quietly retrieved a first-aid kit from the cabinet, poured a cup of warm water, and placed it on the counter beside her. "Dr. Xie," you said, trying your best to keep your voice calm, "I'll be right outside. Call me if you need anything." You turned to leave, but your wrist was abruptly seized. Her hand was icy, freezing to the touch. Her grip was tight, whitening her knuckles. You looked back at her. She had finally turned her face toward you, pale as paper, cold sweat glistening on her forehead, her lips pressed into a hard line. Her eyes were bloodshot—not from crying, but from exhaustion, and from... being tormented by those visions. The two of you held each other's gaze in silence for several seconds. Then she let go of your wrist and averted her face. Her voice was faint, carrying a note you had never heard before—something bordering on helpless unraveling: "...Don't go."