The lab was quiet in a way that felt wrong.
Not the normal, sterile silence I relied on, but something thicker—like the air itself was holding its breath.
I locked the door behind me and checked it twice.
Then a third time.
Only after that did I remove my coat and gloves.
Han Wei's words echoed in my head.
Asking a question you already want a certain answer to.
I stood alone beneath the fluorescent lights, staring at the steel autopsy table. The surface reflected my face faintly—paler than usual, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
I hadn't slept properly since Zhao Ming.
Not because I didn't try.
But because every time I closed my eyes, something else opened.
I turned away and forced myself to focus.
This chapter of my life—this experiment—needed structure. Rules. Observation.
If the power had a cost, then I would document it like any other pathological process.
I pulled a notebook from my desk and wrote a heading:
POST-QUESTION EFFECTS — SUBJECTIVE OBSERVATION
Beneath it, I listed dates. Times. Symptoms.
Headaches.
Insomnia.
Emotional intrusion.
Sensory bleed.
The last one made my pen pause.
There was no medical term for what I was experiencing. The dead did not simply answer and disappear. Something lingered afterward—memories without context, emotions without origin.
Residue.
I swallowed and turned toward the covered body resting in the corner of the room.
An unclaimed corpse. Male. Late fifties. No suspicious markings. Natural causes.
No police pressure. No urgency.
Safe.
At least, as safe as this could be.
"I'm not asking you anything," I said aloud.
My voice sounded strange in the empty lab.
"I just need to know… what happens if I don't."
I removed the covering.
The man's face was slack, anonymous. A life reduced to tissue and silence.
I began the autopsy.
Scalpel steady. Incision precise.
I forced myself to remain clinical, anchoring my thoughts in anatomy and procedure. Skin. Muscle. Organs. Systems.
For a while, it worked.
Then it happened.
Not a voice.
Not a vision.
A sensation.
Pressure on my chest.
Not my own.
I froze, breath catching as my heart began to race.
The sensation intensified—tightness, heaviness, the awareness of breath becoming effort rather than reflex.
I staggered back from the table, gasping.
"No," I whispered. "I didn't ask."
The pressure lingered.
Not violent.
Not overwhelming.
Persistent.
Like a memory refusing to fade.
I pressed my palm against my sternum, grounding myself in my own body. The sensation slowly receded, leaving behind a cold sweat and trembling hands.
I leaned against the counter, chest heaving.
So this was it.
The cost wasn't triggered by asking questions alone.
It was triggered by proximity.
By attention.
By acknowledgment.
I scribbled furiously in the notebook.
Observation: Effects persist even without active questioning.
Hypothesis: Exposure increases sensitivity over time.
A door creaked softly behind me.
I spun around.
Ling stood there, eyes wide.
"You didn't answer your phone," she said. "I got worried."
I exhaled slowly. "I locked it."
"I noticed."
She took a step closer, studying my face. "You look like you're about to collapse."
"I'm fine."
She didn't believe me.
She never did.
"You've been talking in your sleep," she said quietly.
That made my stomach drop.
"What do you mean?"
"At first, it was just mumbling," she continued. "Medical terms. Case notes. But last night…"
She hesitated.
"You said, 'That wasn't the question.' Over and over."
The lab felt colder.
"I don't remember that," I said.
"That's worse," she replied.
I looked away.
I hadn't told Ling about the power. Not explicitly. But she was smart. She saw the patterns. The timing.
"Shen," she said carefully, "what exactly are you doing to yourself?"
I wanted to answer honestly.
But Han Wei's warning echoed again.
The living will not forgive you for what the dead reveal.
"I'm working," I said instead.
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then she nodded, once.
"Okay," she said. "Then work less alone."
After she left, the silence returned—but it felt heavier now, weighed down by unspoken fear.
That night, I dreamed.
I was standing in a room with no walls.
Bodies surrounded me—not decayed, not damaged. Just… waiting.
Each one turned toward me simultaneously.
Their mouths opened.
But only one voice came out.
You're asking the wrong thing.
I woke up choking on air.
My sheets were soaked with sweat.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
You feel it now, don't you?
My fingers trembled as I typed.
Who is this?
The response came instantly.
Someone who stopped listening before it was too late.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
If you keep asking, the echoes will stop fading.
I deleted the conversation.
But the words didn't disappear.
The next morning, as I prepared to leave my apartment, I caught my reflection in the mirror again.
For just a second—just a fraction of a second—it didn't move when I did.
Then it blinked.
And matched me perfectly.
I stepped back, heart pounding.
There was no logical explanation.
Only one conclusion I was no longer willing to ignore.
The dead were no longer confined to the table.
They were following me.