My name is Mu Wangchuan, and I am in charge of the Red Romantic Morgue.
When I climbed out of the morgue that night, the surveillance was clear and all the evidence pointed to me killing three people. The police put a gun to my head, asked me why I came back from the dead, asked me why the wounds on the body were healing on their own - I want to fucking know, okay. The corpses were all in my hands and I closed my eyes obediently. Only one female ghost who had been dismembered sewed her mouth on my ears: "The person who killed you is not a human. The hands you sewed on me were thrown into the world by the King of Hell."
As an embalmer, I only know how to dress the dead in shrouds, but I ended up stitching together a book of yin and yang, and all the ghosts in the city lined up to wait for me to repair the body. Other forensic doctors are more scientific in their autopsy, but here - the real murderer knelt down when the last stitch was sutured.
