Dr. Han Wei lived in a building that smelled like old paper and disinfectant.
It was a narrow, aging apartment complex tucked between a pharmacy and a closed-down clinic—one of those places the city had forgotten while rushing forward. The elevator hadn't worked in years. I took the stairs, each step echoing too loudly in the empty stairwell.
By the time I reached the fourth floor, my headache had returned.
Not sharp. Not blinding.
Persistent.
Like a reminder.
Han Wei opened the door before I could knock.
"You're late," he said.
"I didn't tell you I was coming."
"You don't need to," he replied, stepping aside. "You only visit when you've already crossed a line."
The apartment was dim, curtains drawn despite the daylight outside. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with medical journals, handwritten notebooks, and old case files bound with string. The air smelled faintly of herbal tea and something metallic beneath it.
Memory.
He watched me closely as I removed my shoes.
"You used it again," he said.
I froze.
"I didn't say anything," he added calmly. "You look like you haven't slept in two days. Your breathing is wrong. And your hands are shaking."
I flexed my fingers slowly.
"They weren't shaking an hour ago."
"They never do at first," Han Wei said.
I followed him into the living room. He gestured for me to sit. I remained standing.
"You always knew," I said.
"I suspected," he corrected. "Knowing and being certain are different things."
He poured tea into two cups, his movements steady despite his age. When he handed one to me, his fingers brushed mine briefly.
His expression hardened.
"How many questions have you asked?"
I hesitated.
"That's already the wrong answer," he said quietly.
"Three," I admitted.
His hand paused mid-motion.
"…Then you're still alive by luck."
That caught my attention.
"What does that mean?"
Han Wei sat down slowly, as if the weight of the conversation had suddenly increased. He reached for one of the notebooks on the shelf behind him and placed it on the table.
"This," he said, "is why I stopped."
I opened it.
Inside were autopsy reports—but not like mine. The handwriting was different. Multiple styles. Some pages were stained, others creased from repeated handling.
Names I didn't recognize.
Dates spanning decades.
Causes of death varied wildly: accidents, suicides, unexplained illnesses.
But one phrase appeared again and again in the margins.
'Asked too much.'
My throat tightened.
"These were doctors?" I asked.
"Forensic examiners. Coroners. Medical consultants," Han Wei replied. "People who noticed things they shouldn't have been able to notice."
I flipped through faster.
"None of these cases were linked," I said. "Different cities. Different years."
"Yes," he said. "That's why it took so long to see the pattern."
I looked up at him. "You're saying they had the same ability."
"No," he said softly. "I'm saying they had the same temptation."
I closed the notebook slowly.
"The dead don't lie," I said.
Han Wei's gaze sharpened. "And that is the most dangerous belief of all."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They don't lie," he agreed. "But they don't understand consequences. The dead answer based on what mattered to them in their final moments. Not on what you need. Not on what will protect you."
He leaned forward.
"And certainly not on what will protect others."
I thought of Zhao Ming.
Three people.
No faces.
No names.
A truth that pointed everywhere and nowhere at once.
"You think I asked the wrong question," I said.
"I think," Han Wei replied, "you asked a question that created more danger than certainty."
I clenched my jaw. "If I don't ask, cases like this stay buried."
"And if you do ask," he countered, "you may bury yourself with them."
Silence settled between us.
Then he spoke again, quieter.
"There was a man. Twenty years ago. Brilliant forensic pathologist. Helped close dozens of cold cases."
Han Wei reached for another file and slid it across the table.
"His last case involved a child," he continued. "Murdered. No witnesses. No physical evidence strong enough to convict."
I opened the file.
Photographs.
Too young.
"He asked the dead the wrong question," Han Wei said.
"What did he ask?"
I hesitated before reading the handwritten note at the bottom of the page.
Who deserves to pay for your death?
A chill ran through me.
"The answer," Han Wei continued, "was not a name. It was an emotion. Rage. Grief. Fear. He accused the wrong person—someone connected, powerful. The case collapsed. The real killer disappeared."
"And the doctor?" I asked.
Han Wei's eyes darkened.
"He didn't die," he said. "That would have been kinder."
I looked up sharply.
"He lost his license. His family left him. He couldn't sleep without hearing voices that weren't there."
Han Wei tapped the file gently.
"The dead did not lie to him. They simply answered a question shaped by pain."
The room felt colder.
I thought of the pressure behind my eyes. The lingering sensations. The way Zhao Ming's final moments had bled into my own.
"This power," I said slowly, "isn't about justice."
"No," Han Wei agreed. "It's about responsibility."
I exhaled.
"If I stop now," I said, "people like Zhao Ming's killers walk free."
Han Wei studied me for a long time.
"Do you know why I never told you the truth outright?" he asked.
"Because you hoped I wouldn't discover it," I said.
"No," he replied. "Because I wanted you to decide what kind of man you would be after you did."
He stood and walked to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to let light spill in.
"Once you ask the dead a question," he said, "you cannot pretend ignorance again. Every future choice becomes heavier."
He turned back to me.
"And the living will not forgive you for what the dead reveal."
As if summoned by his words, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I didn't need to look to know.
But I did anyway.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
We know who you spoke to today.
My pulse spiked.
Han Wei watched my expression change.
"They've already noticed you," he said quietly.
I swallowed. "Then it's too late to stop."
He nodded once.
"Yes," he said. "That's why I called you here."
I looked up sharply. "You called me?"
"I wanted to see," he said, "whether you'd still come after the warning."
He met my eyes.
"You did."
I stood slowly, a strange calm settling over me.
"Then tell me," I said. "What is the worst mistake I can make?"
Han Wei answered without hesitation.
"Asking a question you already want a certain answer to."
I left his apartment with the weight of that sentence pressing down on me.
Outside, the city moved as it always had—people walking, cars passing, lives continuing.
But for the first time, I understood something clearly.
The dead were not the danger.
The living were.
And every question I asked would pull their attention closer.