He stood over the body of an elderly woman, his scalpel poised. This was supposed to be a simple apprenticeship. Learn the chemicals, master the sutures, respect the quiet. But the air in the basement had grown heavy, smelling less of formaldehyde and more of wet earth and copper.

The humming of the lights intensified, rising to a piercing shriek. Raymond backed away, hitting the cold brick wall. From the shadows of the embalming room’s corner, a shape began to unfold. It wasn't the old woman. It was something taller, stitched together from the memories of a dozen different "guests" he had seen that week.

Raymond froze. He pulled his hands back, his heart hammering against his ribs. The woman’s chest stayed still. No breath. No pulse. Just the cold, grey reality of death. He told himself it was trapped gases—a natural, if unsettling, part of the process.