Cold iron.
The coldness that penetrated deep into the bone marrow and seemed to freeze the soul together was the last touch before Shen Zhou's consciousness dissipated.
He remembered the dazzling operating light, like a huge, ruthless pupil, hanging above his head. The sound of a metal scalpel cutting through flesh was subtle yet sharp, like fingernails scraping across a blackboard. The smell of formalin mixed with a touch of blood penetrated his nose, choking him and making him want to cough, but he couldn't even move his throat.
"Don't move, Chief Shen." A voice sounded in his ear, with a pleasant cat-and-mouse banter, "Your body... Is really a perfect work of art. Every nerve and every muscle is worthy of... Careful study."
He wanted to scream and struggle, but his whole body was imprisoned by some kind of force, and he could only watch as his chest was opened inch by inch. The pain was not the most important thing. The humiliation and despair of being cut off and examined as a "thing" was the last straw that crushed his sanity.
He, the youngest chief medical examiner in Haicheng, has dissected hundreds of corpses and spoke for the souls of the dead. Now, he himself has become the coldest person on the morgue.
The consciousness was pulled away in severe pain and fell into the boundless darkness.
