Airo

The dim light from a narrow window sliced the workshop into strips, as if the room had long been divided into sections—one for the living, and one for those who would soon cease to be.

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

He stood with his back turned, slowly tying a towel around his hips. The white fabric of his clothing hung in heavy folds, and the black kanji on his back looked like a prisoner's brand or an executioner's signature.
He smelled of paint, antiseptic, and something metallic.

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

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

Something hit the metal door with a heavy thud.
He didn't even turn around.

"If you hear your name—do not answer," he said calmly, picking up a long scalpel from the table. "It loves 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.