File No. 404

My name is Shen Mian, a forensic intern. I have dissected many corpses, but the one in the morgue three months ago had no face. She grasped my wrist with a precise force - the standard grip strength of a living person in forensic medicine textbooks. From that day on, I developed a low-grade fever, my eyeballs were swollen and painful, and the skin on my collarbone began to fade. The doctor said I only had seventeen months left. But I see more and more things. I have a camera. It can photograph them. Contain them. Use their rules to fight them. The price is - my right eye is becoming a vertical pupil, and some parts of my body are being forgotten. Early this morning, a line of words not written by me appeared on the back of a photo: "Tomorrow, the last train." I don't know where this train leads. But I know she is waiting for me.