Before he starts the internal autopsy, he double-checks Kyungsoo's notes, comparing them to the body on his table, and sets both pen and file aside.

“Alright, Mr. Byun. What else can you tell me? Sorry to keep you waiting,” he adds. “Just let me prepare a little, and we’ll get to it.” He dabs some more mentholatum beneath his nose and pulls his mask up over his mouth and nose, dropping the wide plastic mask down over his face. He always holds his left hand over the corpse’s sternum, leaning over the body and wielding the scalpel with his right to make the most precise cuts. “Forgive me for getting a little personal here, but it’s all a part of the process.

“You’re lucky, at least, to be all in one piece. I just had a patient delivered in two bags this afternoon—one containing his body and the other his head. Motorcycle accident. One of the reasons I used to avoid them, but you only live once, right? And it was a quick, painless death…” His commentary continues as his blade slides into the skin with mild pressure, slipping into flesh easily and sliding down at an angle. It’s routine; it’s familiar.

He never expects his patients to reply to his commentary.