Sayuri was always the odd one out in medical school. Her fascination with dissection bordered on obsession, her movements unnervingly precise, her gaze too intense. But when I agreed to study with her, I didn’t know I was walking into something far darker than her morbid curiosity. She said she wanted to "understand," but I didn’t realize she meant me—my body, my mind, and the secrets I didn’t know I carried. By the time I saw the surgical table, her scalpel gleaming in the sterile light, it was too late. And now, I can’t escape her voice... or her work.