I woke up with my nose completely blocked. The cold had been building for two days; started as a scratch in my throat during the trek, progressed to a runny nose yesterday, and now had evolved into full congestion that made breathing through my nose impossible.

  My alarm went off at 7:30 AM. I hit snooze twice before Murin threw a shoe at me.

  "Get up. Autopsy is at ten."

  I sat up, mouth-breathing like a fish. My head felt stuffed with cotton. "I'm not going."

  "You have to go. It's mandatory."

  "I have a cold."

  "Everyone has a cold. It's hostel season. Get up."

  I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the steam would clear my sinuses. It didn't. I got dressed slowly. Akki was already ready, looking unusually serious. No hair gel today, just practical look.

  We headed downstairs where the rest of the third-year batch was gathering. Forty students total, clustering in small groups. The forensic medicine teaching assistants were there, holding boxes of surgical masks.

  "Listen up!" One of them, a young resident named Dr. Hayes, raised his voice. "This is your first autopsy. Some of you will be fine. Some of you will faint or vomit. That's all normal."

  He held up a mask. "Wear multiple masks. Not one. Multiple. Three if you can manage. The smell is... significant."

  Another teaching assistant, an older woman, added, "Bring something sweet to drink. Glucose water, juice, soda. Something with sugar. It helps with nausea and prevents fainting. If you feel lightheaded, raise your hand or leave the room immediately. Don't be a hero and collapse on the autopsy table."

  Students started pulling out bottles from their bags. Juice boxes, energy drinks, cans of soda. I had nothing, hadn't even thought about it. The girls were passing around small bottles of perfume, spraying their masks. The floral scent mixed with morning air and coffee breath from the canteen.

  I grabbed one surgical mask from the box and tied it on. Akki looked at my single mask and his eyes widened. "Where's your glucose drink?"

  "Didn't bring any. If I need it that badly, what are you and Murin going to do? Share?"

  Murin pulled a bottle of orange juice from his bag without commenting.

  We walked to the mortuary building, a squat structure at the far edge of the hospital campus, away from everything else. It's a kind of building you didn't notice unless you were specifically looking for it.

  The entrance was unremarkable. Gray walls, fluorescent lights, linoleum floors. A sign pointed down a corridor: AUTOPSY SUITE.

  We followed it. The suite itself was at the end of the corridor, behind double doors with small circular windows. Through them I could see figures moving, people already inside, preparing.

  Dr. Karim was waiting outside the doors, along with two police officers and several other official-looking people. Behind him stood the dome personnel—the assistants who did the actual physical work of autopsies under the pathologist's direction.

  "Gather around," Dr. Karim said. "Before we go in, you need to understand what you're about to see."

  We clustered closer. "The deceased is a sixteen-year-old female. Cause of death: suspected suicide by hanging. However—" He paused. "The family has filed a complaint claiming it was murder, not suicide. They contest the preliminary findings."

  He gestured to one of the officers, who opened a file folder.

  "Brief history: The deceased was married at fourteen. Child marriage, illegal but unfortunately still common. The marriage was reportedly abusive. Six months ago, she obtained a divorce. During that period, she became involved with another man. Her family did not approve of this relationship. The former in-laws continued to harass her. Three nights ago, she left home. Her body was found the following morning, hanging from a tree at a mountain lookout point."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  What did I just hear.

  "Some of you were present at the discovery site," Dr. Karim continued, his eyes finding me, Murin, and Akki in the crowd. "This is the same case. The body has been preserved in cold storage since recovery. We will now conduct the full medicolegal autopsy to determine definitively whether this was suicide or homicide."

  On the mountain, covered in a jacket, hanging from a tree, she'd looked older. Or maybe I hadn't let myself look closely enough to see how young she was.

  "Inside, you will observe professional autopsy technique," Dr. Karim said. "You will see how we document findings, collect evidence, and build a forensic case. You will also see a deceased human being treated with the dignity they deserve. We begin by paying our respects."

  He pushed open the double doors. The smell hit immediately. Even through my single mask, even with my blocked nose, I could smell it. Formalin and something else underneath that I couldn't identify and didn't want to.

  The autopsy suite was bright. Overhead lights, harsh and white. Tiled walls. A large stainless steel table in the center with channels cut into it for drainage. Sinks along one wall. Instrument trays laid out with tools that looked medical and medieval and on the table, covered with a white sheet, the body.

  From the shape under the sheet, I could tell she was small, thin and young. We filed in silently, lining up along the walls where we wouldn't be in the way. The police officers stood near the door. Dr. Karim approached the table.

  "Before we begin," he said quietly, "we show respect."

  He bowed his head slightly. Everyone in the room did the same. A moment of silence for a girl who'd decided to stop existing.

  Then Dr. Karim nodded to his assistant, who pulled back the sheet.

  Pink jacket. The fabric was slightly stained now, discolored from preservation. Her face was... I looked away quickly. Then forced myself to see.

  Sixteen years old. Dark hair pulled back. Skin discolored in that particular way bodies discolored after death. Foam still crusted around her nose and mouth, nobody had cleaned it. Evidence preservation. But what got me was how small she was. How young. A child who'd gotten married at fourteen and divorced at sixteen and decided at some point in between that life wasn't worth continuing.

  My heart started beating harder and faster. I could feel it in my chest, in my throat.

  I took a breath through my mouth. The smell was worse that way.

  Dr. Karim began speaking, documenting for the official record. "Female, approximately 150 centimeters in height, estimated weight forty-two kilograms. Consistent with stated age of sixteen years..."

  He continued describing external findings. The ligature mark on her neck—a horizontal line with slight upward deviation at the back, consistent with hanging. Petechiae in the eyes. Cyanosis of the lips and nail beds. Conjunctival hemorrhage.

  All the signs I'd read about in textbooks. All present here. The assistant began removing her clothing. The pink jacket first, carefully, preserving it for evidence. Then the shirt underneath. The jeans.

  I felt my head getting heavier. Pressure building behind my eyes, nausea rising.

  She was just lying there. Being undressed by strangers under fluorescent lights while forty medical students watched and took notes. The assistant placed each piece of clothing in separate evidence bags. Labeled and documented them.

  Dr. Karim picked up a scalpel. "We begin with the Y-incision," he said. "From both shoulders to the sternum, then down to the pubic symphysis."

  He placed the blade at her right shoulder and cut. The sound was worse than I expected. It was like cutting through meat at a butcher shop. Through skin, through fat, through muscle. My vision started graying at the edges.

  He completed the Y—both shoulders down to sternum, then a long line down the center of her torso. Then he began peeling back the skin.

  That's when my body decided it was done. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. My head felt like it weighed a hundred kilograms. Nausea surged up my throat. The room tilted slightly.

  I didn't raise my hand or announce anything. Just turned and walked quickly toward the door, pushing through it into the corridor. The cooler air outside hit my face. I yanked my mask down and took huge gulping breaths through my mouth.

  Someone had left bags lined up against the wall. I grabbed the first water bottle I saw, didn't care whose it was and drank half of it in one go. Found a chair and sat down hard, putting my head between my knees.

  I stayed like that, breathing, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The door opened. An assistant professor, I didn't know his name—came out with another student, a girl from another group. She immediately bent over and vomited into a trash can.

  The professor looked at me. "Can you continue?"

  I looked up at him. "I don't know."

  "If you can't handle this minor scene, how will you handle worse bodies? Putrefied remains, burn victims, advanced decomposition?" His voice wasn't cruel, just matter-of-fact. "Doctors must have lion hearts, remember that."

  Minor scene. So this was minor.

  The girl was still vomiting. The professor handed her a tissue. I stood up slowly. My head was still heavy but the nausea had backed off slightly. My heart rate was coming down. "I'll go back in."

  "You sure?"

  "No. But I'll go anyway."

  He nodded. "Good. That's what we need to see."

  I pulled my mask back up, took another swig of water, and pushed through the doors.