The reassignment office smelled like dust and old paper.
It was meant to feel temporary.
Everything about it said you won't be here long, which was worse than permanence. Temporary things could be extended indefinitely without explanation.
I sat alone at the metal desk, staring at a stack of unsigned forms, when the first residue surfaced.
It wasn't visual.
It wasn't auditory.
It was emotional—sharp and misplaced, like stepping into a room mid-argument.
Disappointment.
Not mine.
I froze.
The feeling did not fade.
It hovered, heavy and intimate, pressing against my chest as if someone else's regret had found a place to rest.
I closed my eyes.
This is new, I thought.
I had not asked a question.
I had not touched a body.
And yet—
I stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sensation intensified for a split second, then retreated, like a tide pulling back just enough to remain threatening.
I exhaled slowly.
This wasn't residue clinging to a corpse.
It was following me.
1. THE WRONG ROOMS
The reassignment facility was attached to a municipal morgue, smaller than the central lab, quieter, understaffed.
No Ling.
No familiar technicians.
Just me, paperwork, and bodies no one cared enough to argue over.
By noon, I had processed three cases.
Routine.
Clean.
But with each one, the residue grew stronger—not from the bodies, but from the spaces around them.
In the locker room, anxiety prickled my skin, frantic and breathless.
In the hallway outside cold storage, guilt pooled thick enough to make my steps falter.
I stopped walking.
"This isn't happening," I murmured.
The guilt surged, sharp and specific.
It should have been me.
My stomach twisted.
I backed away from the door.
The feeling faded immediately.
Location-based.
Selective.
I rubbed my temples, trying to steady my thoughts.
The power had always required intent.
Consent.
Now, emotion was leaking through without permission.
2. A BODY I DIDN'T TOUCH
The fourth case arrived at 2:17 p.m.
Female.
Late twenties.
Suicide by overdose, according to preliminary findings.
No suspicious circumstances.
No reason for me to do more than confirm.
I stood at the foot of the table and waited.
Nothing.
No pressure.
No residue.
Relief loosened something tight in my chest.
"Alright," I whispered. "Good."
I reached for the gloves.
The moment the latex snapped against my wrist, the residue hit.
Grief.
Not raw.
Refined.
The kind that had been revisited too many times to scream.
It rolled through me slowly, methodically, bringing with it a single, coherent thought:
They'll be relieved.
My hands trembled.
I tore the gloves off and stepped back.
The emotion receded.
I stared at the body.
She hadn't refused.
She hadn't spoken.
But something of her was still aware.
Not conscious.
Not sentient.
Imprinted.
I swallowed hard.
"So this is the cost," I said quietly.
Not madness.
Not voices.
But empathy without distance.
3. ISOLATION AS A SYMPTOM
I stopped eating in the common room.
The emotions there were too tangled—stress, resentment, boredom, ambition—all bleeding together until I couldn't tell which belonged to me.
I took my meals alone.
I stopped answering casual questions.
Every interaction left a faint aftertaste, like emotional static.
Ling called once.
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to hear her voice.
Because I was afraid of what I might feel when I did.
The residue was teaching me something dangerous:
Distance was safety.
4. THE DREAM WITHOUT FACES
That night, I dreamed without images.
Just sensations.
Pride.
Fear.
Hope.
Regret.
They passed through me one by one, orderly, restrained—as if queued.
No faces.
No names.
Only the quiet certainty that none of them belonged to the living.
When I woke, my pillow was damp with sweat.
My heart raced, but my mind was clear.
Too clear.
I understood something then that unsettled me deeply.
The residue wasn't random.
It was contextual.
Triggered by meaning, not proximity.
Places where decisions had been made.
Objects that had witnessed choice.
The dead were not haunting me.
They were leaving fingerprints.
5. THE NOTEBOOK CHANGES
I opened my notebook and turned to the rules section.
The page felt inadequate now.
I added a new heading.
OBSERVED EFFECT — EMOTIONAL RESIDUE
Then, carefully:
Manifests without questioning
Triggered by locations, objects, and unresolved decisions
Intensifies after direct answers are received
Appears selective, not universal
I hesitated, pen hovering.
Then I wrote the final line.
Residue respects restraint.
I closed the notebook.
Xu Yichen's refusal hadn't been a wall.
It had been a warning.
6. A TEST I REGRET
The next day, I broke my own rule.
Not with a corpse.
With an object.
A sealed evidence bag from an old case—unrelated, unsolved, forgotten.
I touched it.
The residue surged instantly.
Rage.
Focused.
Controlled.
Not grief.
Not fear.
Purpose.
I recoiled, heart hammering.
That emotion had direction.
Target.
I dropped the bag and staggered back.
The feeling snapped off like a switch.
I stood there, breathing hard, realization settling in like ice.
Some residues weren't passive.
They were pointing.
7. THE DEAD ARE CHOOSING AGAIN
That evening, as I locked up, I felt it once more.
Faint.
Persistent.
Approval.
I turned slowly.
No one was there.
But the sensation lingered just long enough to be unmistakable.
Xu Yichen hadn't spoken again.
But he hadn't left either.
I understood then what the true cost was becoming.
I could walk away from the questions.
But the answers had already changed the world I moved through.
The dead were no longer silent.
They were patient.
And they were watching to see what I would do next.