Minghao finally gets to visit Mingyu after the operation. Before he rushes into the temporary ward, a doctor stops him to give him the low down of the diagnosis.

“Mr. Xu, am I right? I’m Yoon Jeonghan, A&E doctor from Pyeonghan Medical,” a man in blue surgical attire comes up to him as he puts on his white robes of protocol. “I figured since you were a pathologist downstairs we’re bound to meet anyway.”

“I mean, I’m an intern, but yeah. How’s Kim Mingyu?”

The doctor takes off his surgical cap and lets down chestnut-coloured shoulder length hair. “Well, it’s pretty amazing how fast he’s recovered, and I’m not praising the staff team here. When he came in he was pretty much a leaking blood tap, and with the blood mass precentage in his body it was impossible for his survival. The slash wounds everywhere were a headache but before we could stitch them all up, most had closed up on their own!”

Minghao gapes. “When I diagnosed him, they weren’t even simple slashes. They were whole areas of skin cut off over several centimetre squares worth of his epidermis.”

“Exactly. It’s not that fortunate for the right thigh where the bone was stabbed through. It definitely hasn’t healed yet but the left, with an equal surface area worth of skin damage, has a curious, other-worldly palm print on it.”

“Palm… print?”

“The rest of the left thigh is still festering, and we’re monitoring it, giving it frequent sanitization every few hours. However, in the middle of the raw, bloody flesh, there’s a dry, palm-shaped scab formed. It’s literally there, it’s crazy.”

“How does that work?”

“It doesn’t. But why would you ask me? You’re the pathologist,” Jeonghan says, bewilderment still present in his eyes. “Anyway, Kim Mingyu’s temporarily put in a shared ward, but I’m aware it’s still a criminal case, so by all means if you have to take him back to the lab or move him to another ward please do. Contact me if you need medical personnel by your side.”

Swallowing thickly, Minghao makes his way into the shared ward. Its atmosphere mirrors that of a wet market – people shouting, people dying, people moving, people being moved, people, people, people. The only difference is that the room is kept to a clinical dry minimum. But it’s a mess, and he has to sift through the throng of patients and medical staff alike just to get to the middle of the ward.

Mingyu’s sleeping on a wheeled bed, the mattress a little too small for his body. The punctured wound on his right thigh isn’t sutured to disallow fluid accumulation and infection, but there’s a rubber artificial drain wedged into his skin for blood drainage. It’s awful. He can see the damaged flesh from where he stands, but it’s hardly as severe as it was when Minghao found Mingyu’s body in the body bag, the white of his fractured bone exposed against equally stark skin. Now Mingyu’s skin is less pale, his eyes unsunken, his other slash wounds only lines of scars against skin.

This can’t be real. No one heals this fast. No one but ing Wolverine, but this is Kim Mingyu, former college student, former dead man.

Gingerly, Minghao lifts Mingyu’s clothing to search for the alleged palm print, and he finds it. It seemingly stares at him and the sight of maroon scabbing against raw flesh takes Minghao back to this afternoon during his brawl with Mingyu before Soonyoung came in.

“Stop moving!”  I yell. The corpse moves nonetheless, trying to kick me, who does he think he is, who does he think I am. I’m not your enemy!

“You’re ruining your own evidence I need to know how you died!” I say, and he doesn’t care. Maybe he actually is a zombie and he doesn’t understand anything I’ve been trying to say for the past minute. I’m running out of ideas, I really am. I try to suppress him with whatever I’ve got, pressing down on the thigh that didn’t get stabbed.

“I’m serious man you gotta stop-”

The door opens, and 3187E stops moving, going rigid in my arms. Soonyoung stares at the both of us. I’m just happy 3187E isn’t moving anymore, it’s really tiring to tackle someone, like, three times heavier than you are. Soonyoung really should have come  earlier. It’s more effective-

“Eeuugurts,” the corpse says. I’m in the midst of deciphering his words, my hand still on his thigh, when, lo and behold, Soonyoung faints. Why the hell does he work in a mortuary when he faints this easily?

Someone should have yelled “Timber!. I abandon Mingyu and I run to check on Soonyoung’s vitals, which seem to be fine.

Do I deserve this much on my first day? No. Do I get it though? Yes.

Seungcheol stumbles in, unsure of who to minister to first. Soonyoung on the floor, or the bloody corpse struggling to get up once again? Tough life choices. You know how there’s that quote about two roads diverged in a wood, huh? I took the one less travelled, running to back to creepy- Mingyu so he doesn’t injure himself further. What did my boss do? He didn’t even take any of the roads. He ran back upstairs to get a gurney.

That quote is either bull, or I’m too dull to understand how taking any of the roads makes any difference. I just know the gurney was a better choice, and Soonyoung wakes up a minute later anyway. I know nothing, but the fact that I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe that can be a philosophical quote on its own. It’s far more relatable.

Minghao’s head spins, a little, then a lot, the ceiling fan looking like it may fall anytime, the lampshade beside him looking like it’s twirling. He sits down, his finger tracing over the scab gently.

I couldn’t have done it. Right?

His hand ghosts over the palm print scab, and chills actually run down his spine when the palm print fits his own.

Suddenly, Mingyu stirs, his head shaking groggily as he wakes. Minghao draws his hand back instantly, like he’s touched the tongues of fire.

He’s too scared to say anything, so he just watches. Watches as Mingyu registers his surroundings in, taking in the clinical smell of antiseptic, taking the too-bright lights, taking in the backdrop of blurry people, blurry faces.

Mingyu clears his throat and attempts to sit up, causing Minghao to panic and rush to his side.

“Your thigh is still heavily injured, Mr Kim,” Minghao says in alarm.

Mingyu waves him away. “Relax, surgeon guy. I’m fine. I feel more alive than I’ve ever been in my past twenty-two years. There’s just one thing.”

“What is it?”

“My , it hurts.”

Minghao bites his lips,  turning away, forcing down the laughter that bubbles at his throat.

“Is that so?” he says with his straightest face and his calmest tone.

“Yeah. During the torture session before I died, I didn’t remember ual assault.”

“Well, I, I’m sorry?” Minghao says amidst laughter.

“You ually assaulted me?” Mingyu roars, getting up in bed and grabbing Minghao’s shoulders, causing Minghao to lift up his hands in immediate surrender.

“No, I had to stick a needle up your to allow gas release! You were putrifying! You practically died then and you were decomposing so I don’t know what’s going on now!”

They stare incredulously at each other, feeling the simultaneous stares of everyone else in the room prickling into their backs.

A nurse approaches Minghao to tell him to keep his volume down to not stir patients who are asleep, which has to be the most hypocritical statement of the year because her own patient is yelling about her grand-nephew who never visits.

Minghao carries Mingyu’s IV-drip, his other hand on the railing of his wheel-able bed.

“Let’s go somewhere where it’s quiet,” Minghao whispers quickly, rolling the hospital bed out of the messy ward.

“Wait, what?” Mingyu immediately protests as he’s being rolled helplessly. “What do you think this is, a party? You tak