The air in the forensic morgue was always unsettlingly cold.
It wasn’t just ordinary cold; it was a chill that seeped in through cuffs and collars. The harsh, white lights illuminated the gleaming metal tables, and the air was thick with the faint, mingled odours of disinfectant, rubber gloves and decaying flesh. The moment one stepped inside, one's voice seemed to lower involuntarily.
Ethan stood by the autopsy table, a clipboard clutched in his hand, his expression tense.
“Female, aged between thirty and thirty-two. Time of death approximately one month ago,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though the morgue itself exuded a natural sense of oppression. 'There are distinct ligature marks on both wrists and thirty-seven non-fatal injuries were found on her body.' The weapon is
