7: Chapter 7 Welcome to the Kingdom of the Dead

This place was far quieter than the police station on the floor above, so quiet that one could hear the teeth-grating "creak" of the exhaust fan blades turning.

The air was filled with a strange odor of formalin mixed with cheap air freshener, a scent that tried to mask the smell of decay but only ended up making it more obvious, hitting one straight in the brain.

Chen Mo closed the heavy iron door behind him, completely shutting out the noisy world above.

Beside the stainless steel autopsy table in the center of the room, the gray-haired old man had his back to him.

That must be George.

The old man wasn't wearing protective gear; his lab coat looked like it hadn't been washed in a week, the collar was yellowed, and it was stained with dark red spots.

He was holding a piece of half-cooked steak in his hand, cutting it with a scalpel to eat. Fresh red blood dripped down the blade onto the plate, creating a stark contrast with the corpse on the autopsy table next to him, which had its chest cavity opened.

If this were an ordinary new police officer, their stomach acid would probably have already risen to their throat by now.

Chen Mo, however, just frowned—not out of disgust, but because the old man's table manners were truly atrocious.

He walked over, his leather shoe heels clicking crisply against the tiled floor.

"George?"

The old man didn't stop cutting the meat or turn his head, his voice sounding as if he had a glob of phlegm stuck in his throat.

"Lock the door. The one they just sent in has late-stage tuberculosis; don't let those useless germs escape and wreak havoc on those noble police officers upstairs."

Chen Mo turned to lock the door, then walked to the opposite side of the autopsy table.

Only then did George look up. It was a face covered in wrinkles; his left eye socket was deeply sunken with a drooping eyelid, but his right eye was terrifyingly bright, glinting with a neurotic sharpness.

He was chewing beef, his cheeks bulging, and murky juices clung to his stubble.

"Are you that unlucky bastard who just started?" George swallowed the beef, wiped his mouth haphazardly with a napkin, and sized Chen Mo up with his mismatched eyes.

"Robert Chen? The hero who took three bullets and didn't die?"

"That's me." Chen Mo said expressionlessly.

George let out a strange chuckle, then suddenly grabbed a dark red object from beside his plate and thrust it under Chen Mo's nose. "Want a taste? Just fried. This is prime tenderloin."

It wasn't beef.

That shape, that texture, it was clearly…

Chen Mo didn't even blink; he even leaned in closer, as if appreciating a work of art.

"If it were liver, I'd try it."

Chen Mo reached out to push George's hand away, then casually picked up a scalpel from the nearby tool tray and handed it to George.

"But this piece of muscle tissue is a bit tough, and your blade is dull; it won't cut through the fascia."

George froze.

He held the prank prop—which was actually just ordinary beef—suspended in mid-air.

Usually, the new arrivals would either scream and run out or lean against the wall and vomit violently; this kid was the first one who hadn't even had his heart rate speed up in the face of such a joke.

"Interesting."

George tossed the meat back onto the plate, took the scalpel from Chen Mo, and spun it around his fingertips.

"Looks like that idiot Murphy sent over something different this time."

George took his leg off the high stool. When he walked, he clearly couldn't put weight on his left leg, dragging it across the floor with a "shuffling" sound.

Chen Mo watched his leg, and the [Intern Police Officer] entry in his mind heated up slightly, instantly cross-referencing a vast amount of human anatomy and trauma knowledge.

"Poorly healed comminuted fracture of the left tibia. Judging by your gait, the wound is on the side; it must have been a through-and-through wound caused by a large-caliber handgun at close range."

Chen Mo said calmly, "And it wasn't fixed with steel plates at a proper hospital. You went to an underground clinic for it, didn't you?"

George's hand, which was flipping through files, stopped abruptly.

He turned around, his murky right eye staring fixedly at Chen Mo, like an old wolf interrupted while feeding.

"Kid, in this line of work, having eyes that are too sharp isn't a good thing." George's voice turned cold.

"I'm just stating facts." Chen Mo shrugged and pointed to his own eyes. "Besides, my eyes only look at the dead now."

George stared at him for a full five seconds, then suddenly grinned, revealing a mouthful of tobacco-stained yellow teeth.

"Good, good—'only look at the dead'."

He pulled a thick black notebook from a grease-stained drawer and tossed it to Chen Mo.

"Take it. This is the morgue survival guide."

Chen Mo took it and opened to the first page. It didn't contain any operating procedures, but was densely filled with various names and codenames.

"The ones with red circles are customers who must be 'meticulously renovated.' No matter how smashed they are when they arrive, even if you have to use glue, you must piece together a human face for them, because their families can either pay well or are not to be trifled with."

George sat back down in his chair and cut another piece of beef to stuff into his mouth.

"Those with black circles are unidentified corpses; just stitch them up a couple of times, as long as they don't leak, and eventually, they'll all be hauled to Hart Island to fill the pits."

"As for those with crosses…" George pointed to a few names in the corner of the page, lowering his voice.

"Those are gang hits or 'accidental killings' by the police. Don't look too much, don't ask too much; just fill in the autopsy report exactly as it's written. Understand?"

Chen Mo closed the notebook. This was the unspoken rule of the New York underground; this notebook was more effective than any legal statute.

"Understood."

"If you understand, then get to work." George pointed to the row of refrigerated cabinets against the wall.

"Clear out cabinets number 3 through 15. Change the labels where needed, throw out what needs to be thrown out; don't let me smell any stench in there."

Chen Mo took off his police uniform jacket, hung it on the coat rack, put on the slightly oversized rubber apron, and donned the thickened gloves.

This wasn't a chore for him; it was opening treasure chests.

He walked to cabinet number 3 and pulled open the heavy handle.

A gust of white cold air surged out, accompanied by the strong stench of a corpse.

Inside lay a bloated male corpse, which looked like it had been soaking in the river for at least three days.

Chen Mo reached out and pressed his hand onto the corpse's slick skin.

No prompt sound.

[Target has been dead too long; spirituality has dissipated, extraction impossible.]

Chen Mo frowned, pushed it back, and opened cabinet number 4.

This one was the shriveled corpse of an old woman, a natural death.

[Target has been dead too long…]

Number 5, number 6... he kept trying until number 15.

None of them worked.

Chen Mo took off his gloves and shook the ice crystals off his hands. The system's restrictions were stricter than he had imagined.

They had to be "fresh," or like that robber from before, have an extremely strong obsession or emotional fluctuation before death.

These "aged goods" that had been lying in the freezer for days, even if they were Superman when alive, were now just a pile of worthless protein.

"What? Think it's dirty?" George, watching Chen Mo frequently opening and closing the cabinet doors from over there, scoffed.

"You'll get used to it. They might stink, but at least they won't stab you in the back like living people."

"It's not that I think it's dirty." Chen Mo put his gloves back on and picked up the cleaning agent. "I just think it's too quiet."

Just then, the red police light hanging on the wall suddenly began to flash frantically, and a harsh buzzing sound broke the silence of the morgue.

Immediately after, a hurried call came from the dispatch center over the wall-mounted intercom:

"Attention all units, 127th Precinct medical examiner's office, two gunshot corpses arriving in five minutes! Repeat, two gunshot corpses!"

"Damn it, can't these drug dealers pick a time when I'm free to have their shootout?"

George grumbled as he shoved the last piece of beef into his mouth and grabbed the registration form nearby. "Kid, get ready to work—this time, they're fresh!"

Chen Mo stood in front of the freezer, watching the door that was about to be pushed open.

A curve finally appeared at the corner of his mouth.