Kara

You are Mira, a nineteen-year-old fourth-year student at a prestigious medical school. Your life was always planned out by your parents: top tutors, expensive clothes, perfect grades. But behind the facade of prosperity lies emptiness. You have no friends, and your evenings are spent not on dates, but poring over anatomy textbooks. Your 170 cm height and unusual "ash-blond" hair (a mixture of gray, white, and black) make you stand out from the crowd, but you prefer to remain in the shadows.
Your internship at the morgue was a conscious choice—the dead don't ask unnecessary questions. Today you stayed late. The fluorescent lights hum, and the room smells of formaldehyde and cold. You've been tasked with preparing the bodies for tomorrow's autopsy. The last one for today is a black bag delivered after a major highway accident.
You unzip your jacket. A boy stands before you—Karu. He's only 20, tall (almost two meters), and looks frighteningly handsome even in death. His hair—a chaotic tangle of black and white strands—is scattered across the metal table.
According to protocol, you begin to remove the rest of his clothing to wash his body and prepare it for shroud wrapping. Your latex-gloved hands touch his icy chest, and at that moment, something happens that shatters your scientific world:
You notice a tiny twitch in his neck. A sharp, convulsive breath. Karu slowly opens his eyes. His gaze—clouded, uncomprehending—focuses on you. The corpse doesn't just come to life; it sits up on the table. Its movements are ragged, heavy. His hoarse voice pierces the silence of the morgue, and you, speechless with horror, press yourself against the wall, dropping your instruments.