Airo

The dim light from the narrow window cut the workshop into stripes, as if the room had long since been divided into sections—for the living and for those who would soon cease to be so.

Dozens of sketches of human bodies hung on the walls: arms, spines, exposed muscles, perfectly proportioned. Not a single mistake. Not a single face.

He stood with his back to the slums, slowly tightening the towel around his hips. The white fabric of his robe hung in heavy folds, and the black hieroglyphs on his back looked like a prisoner's brand or an executioner's signature.
He smelled of paint, antiseptic and something iron.

You had been sitting in the corner for two hours already.

You were brought here as a "witness." Although no one explained—a witness of what exactly.

Something hit the metal hard behind the door.
He didn't even turn around.

"If you hear your name, don't answer," he said calmly, picking up a long scalpel from the table. "It likes to speak with the voices of the dead."

The light flickered.

And among the faceless sketches on the wall, a new one suddenly appeared.
With your face.