Elijah Koenig didn't believe in chance. Or God, or fate. He believed in only three things: the scalpel, silence, and control.
The operating room was his only church.
The body—his only prayer.
And the pain?
The pain was real. The pain was just.
He pulled off his gloves, slowly, as if every movement had ritual significance. The patient had survived, when he shouldn't have. A stab wound between the ribs. In cases like this, most doctors nodded in relief. Elijah didn't. He thought only of how perfect the knifeman's cut had been—sharp, clean, sure. Brutal, but classy.
Such things fascinated him. Bad things.
~~~
The break room was empty, as usual. Elijah poured himself a black coffee, adding no milk or sugar. Sugar was a weakness.
The clock struck two in the morning. The city was whispering in the language of crime. He could feel it, even though he was locked in a concrete box.
His phone vibrated.
"I found something for you. Morgue. Now."
No signature. He didn't need it. Only one person in the hospital knew about his... additional interests. The autopsy technician, Igor. Fat, always sweaty, too curious. But useful.
Elijah returned to the locker room. He took off his lab coat and put on his private sweatshirt - black, plain, without a logo. From the pocket he took his personal tool kit. He didn't let anyone touch them. Not even the cleaners. Not even himself, if there was no need. They were almost sacred.
He went down the stairs, not using the elevator. The elevator buzzed, squeaked. And he liked the sound of footsteps in the empty corridors - they were like a heartbeat.
The morgue was located in the lowest part of the hospital complex. No one came down here without need. Elijah opened the door without knocking.
The smell. Metallic. Thick. As if the blood hadn't dried completely, despite the temperature.
Igor wasn't there.
Only one body. It was lying on the autopsy table, covered with a gray sheet. Next to it - a card with no data. An unidentified man. Young.
Eliasz didn't approach immediately. He stood for a moment by the entrance, with his hands in his pockets. He watched. He assessed the position, the shape of the figure, the weight of the shadow under the lamp. Everything had meaning.
When he finally uncovered the body, he bit his cheek.
Face - surprisingly calm.
Torso - naked, thin, but tense. As if the man had died in motion.
On the skin - a trace of something more than just a blow.
Not a tattoo. Not a scar.
A symbol. Strange. Burned into the body like a seal. It resembled a letter, but crossed out.
Something touched him.
Not an emotion. Eliasz didn't trust emotions.
It was an impulse. A cold flash of fascination.
He took out the scalpel. Not to cut. Not yet. Just… to feel the weight in his hand.
Something was wrong.
A camera flickered in the corner of the room. It was probably working. Or maybe not. Elijah moved closer to the dead man, ignoring the cold metal under the skin of his own forearms. He touched the burned mark with his fingers.
The skin was already hard. But not yet stiff.
Death must have occurred several hours ago.
"Who sent you?" he whispered to the body.
He knew he wouldn't get an answer. But he spoke. Sometimes he spoke to the dead. And sometimes it seemed to him that they were listening.
---
After returning to his apartment, Elijah couldn't fall asleep for a long time. Despite the fact that the bed was perfectly arranged, despite the curtains being drawn exactly as he liked.
He lay in darkness. The small red light of the nightstand lamp was lit on the nightstand. The only color in the room.
He still had the stranger's face before his eyes. And that sign.
He knew that this wasn't the end.
This was the beginning.
Even though he didn't know his name yet.
Even though he didn't know that the man he was touching with his cold fingers wasn't dead.
Not quite.