Chapter 3
"External examination complete. Preparing for internal autopsy."
Jonathan' voice echoed through the empty autopsy room, cold as ice—no trace of feeling at all.
He picked up a fresh scalpel, its blade flashing with a chilling gleam under the harsh lights.
That blade was about to cut straight into my chest.
"Wait!"
Frank finally snapped—he grabbed Jonathan's wrist, stopping him cold.
"Jonathan, stop! The external exam is enough. The cause of death is clear—she fell from up there! You don't have to do this!"
Frank's eyes were bloodshot, his voice pleading and raw.
"She's Emily! Your wife! How is she supposed to rest in peace if you do this? How are you ever going to live with yourself?"
Jonathan's gaze slowly shifted from the scalpel's edge to Frank's face, his movements calm and deliberate.
For the first time, a subtle tremor appeared in those deep eyes.
It wasn't sadness, and it wasn't hesitation.
It was a cold, borderline obsessive intensity.
"Frank, have you forgotten? We're forensic doctors," he said, each word deliberate and unyielding.
His voice was low, but every syllable carried an unyielding authority that brooked no argument.
"On this table, there's no husband, no wife—just a forensic doctor searching for the truth, and a victim waiting for their injustice to be righted."
He firmly peeled Frank's hand off his wrist, his tone edged with warning.
"If you can't stay completely objective, then please leave. Don't interfere with what I'm doing here."
"You—" Frank was so furious he was shaking, pointing at Jonathan, but the words just wouldn't come out.
Frank was so furious he was shaking, pointing at Jonathan, but the words just wouldn't come out.
In the end, it was like all the fight had been drained out of him. He just stepped aside, looking utterly defeated, his face full of pain and despair.
"You're crazy Jonathan, you've really lost it"
Yeah, he really had lost it.
From the moment he put on that surgical gown and picked up the scalpel, he'd gone off the deep end.
I watched as he gripped the scalpel again, the cold blade aimed right at the center of my chest.
I remembered how he used to bury his face right here, listening to my heartbeat.
He'd say, "Emily, your heartbeat is the most beautiful music in the world. As long as I can hear it, I feel completely at peace."
'Jonathan, listen,' Emily pleaded silently in her heart.
'Can you still hear it now, Jonathan?'
But you can't hear it anymore.
So now, you're going to dig it out with your own hands, just to see what made it stop?
For the first time, hatred surged through my soul.
Hatred so fierce it threatened to consume me.
I hated Vivian with every fiber of my being—the woman who sent me tumbling down those stairs.
But even more, I hated the man standing before me—the one who used "justice" as an excuse to cut me apart, slice by slice, even after I was dead.
He raised the scalpel.
I closed my eyes.
If a soul could even close its eyes.
The cold blade sliced through my skin without a moment's hesitation.
From the top of the chest all the way down to the pelvis.
A classic Y-shaped cut.
This was the most basic move in a forensic autopsy.
He'd done this thousands of times, so often it was second nature to him.
But this time, the body lying beneath his blade was his own wife.
The scalpel sliced through my skin, then the fat, then the muscle—layer by layer, laying me open for all to see.
His hand was so steady it was almost scary—not a single tremor.
The blood had already clotted, and now only dark red liquid oozed from the wound.
He pried my chest open with a rib spreader.
My heart, my lungs, my liver—every organ I had was completely exposed, with not a shred of dignity left, laid out for him and his students to stare at.
He picked up the tissue scissors and forceps, starting to remove my organs one by one.
"Heart, approximately 300 grams. Pericardium intact. No obvious hemorrhagic spots in the myocardium"
He held my heart in his hand, weighed it, and made a note of it.
That heart once beat wildly for him, once overflowed with joy and broke with sorrow because of him.
Now, it was nothing but a cold, lifeless lump of meat—just 300 grams, nothing more.
"Both lungs—dark red on the cut surface, with clear signs of contusions from the fall"
He cut into my lungs, his eyes cold and detached as he studied every detail, like he was just inspecting another specimen.
I remembered when we went hiking. I was panting, and he gave me a piggyback ride, joking that even the corpses he'd dissected had better lungs than me.
I playfully punched him, but he just burst out laughing.
"Liver, spleen, both kidneys No obvious abnormalities," Jonathan said.
His movements were fluid—professional, calm, and efficient.
He was like a finely tuned machine.
The interns nearby, who had started out shocked and uneasy, gradually shifted to admiration and awe.
"Mr. Rivers is so professional," one of them whispered.
"Yeah, even when it's his own wife and he can still stay so calm. I'll never be able to do that, no matter how long I try," another said.
"He's a legend"
I listened to their whispers, feeling their words were both harsh and absurd.
'A legend?' I scoffed inwardly.
'No.'
'He wasn't a legend.'
'He was just a demon, utterly heartless, with not a shred of soul left in him.'
The autopsy continued.
Soon, my chest and abdomen were left completely empty.
The organs that had once sustained my life were now neatly arranged on stainless steel trays, waiting to be sliced and examined.
I was like a rag doll, torn apart and left in pieces—broken and pitiful.
'Jonathan, are you seeing this?' Emily thought.
'Everything you wanted—your precious "evidence"—is right here,' she scoffed inwardly.
'There's nothing wrong with my heart, nothing wrong with my liver, and my lungs are fine too—except for the bruises from the fall.'
'I was perfectly healthy. No sudden illness, nothing out of the blue.'
'Someone murdered me.'
'Did you really have to prove it like this? So cruel.'
Finally, his gaze fell on the last organ in my abdomen.
My womb.