Chapter Eight: The End of the World Among Mortals (Part One)

When Laura finally saw the bodies, she understood what the secretary meant by horror. Though she majored in finance, the Federation’s education was comprehensive—legal and medical basics were required courses at university. Usually, a dead person’s face showed no expression; no matter how someone died, the muscles, including those of the face, relaxed. There was the phenomenon of cadaveric spasm, but more often than not, the twisted expressions resulted from pain endured before death.

But to see such an eerie smile on a corpse’s face—this belonged only in movies or novels.

It was a sinister grin; Laura swore it was no trick of the mind. She’d studied psychology, was well-versed in reading expressions—a vital skill for any competent manager. She was certain this smile brimmed with malice and cruelty.

“When did these people die?” Laura steadied herself and looked up to question the gathered experts.

Most were over fifty, with distinguished careers in biology and medicine. Such scholars cared little for the trappings of rank, often ignoring questions from higher-ups when engrossed in their work, as they were now.

No one answered her. Laura didn’t get angry; she stood there impassively, radiating calm composure. There were others from the research department who dealt with personnel matters, but they too were silent. The purpose was obvious—to test the new CEO.

Laura was in no hurry. She waited patiently, unruffled even as she was treated like air. Nearly half an hour passed; the true experts continued their academic debate, while the administrative managers began to sweat. None had expected the young manager to be so unflappable.

Another ten minutes slipped by before one of them, unable to hold out any longer, approached with feigned cheer, as if just noticing Laura. “Ah, Manager, apologies—I was so busy I didn’t see you come in. Did you say something just now?”

Laura fixed him with a cold stare. His words contradicted themselves: if he hadn’t noticed her, how could he have heard what she said? The real experts were excused for their absorption, but she had little patience for this group’s petty games.

“I don’t repeat myself. If you missed it, pretend I never spoke.” Her tone was icy, neither sharp nor angry, but all the more unsettling for its restraint.

The manager laughed awkwardly. “Ha... Cherry, did the Manager give any instructions I missed? Really, you should have told me...” The crowd paused, recognizing the difference in stature between the two. The research director’s posturing seemed childish beside Laura’s calm authority.

“Manager, they’ve been dead for five hours. When the hospital declared brain death, they were sent here,” Cherry, the assistant, replied with newfound respect, her manner transformed from earlier.

Laura merely glanced at her, then strode to one of the senior experts. “Professor Mifor?”

The director and assistants were surprised; wasn’t this new manager from an internet background? How did she know so much about medical experts? Clearly, she’d done her homework.

The professor frowned, clearly annoyed at being interrupted, and looked at Laura with scant courtesy. “What is it?”

Laura’s approach shifted; she offered a reassuring smile. “Just a few questions, if I may.”

The professor nodded. Stern and proud, as all experts were, but not oblivious to propriety. He was old enough to know when respect was offered, and Laura’s bearing and humility were enough to merit his response.

“Cherry said these people have been dead five hours, but I see no signs of rigor mortis on the bodies, and these dark patches seem highly irregular.”

“Indeed,” the professor mused. “I find it curious too. When the hospital declared brain death, they removed the oxygen supply. A brain-dead body can’t breathe on its own, so the heart should stop within minutes. But these cases are different—five hours have passed, yet their hearts still beat.”

Still beating? Laura felt icy dread sweep over her. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the body to her left. Was it her imagination, or had its fingers twitched? The smile on its face seemed even wider.

The research director, the one who’d spoken with Laura, burst out, “Why didn’t you say so earlier? If they’re alive, we should be resuscitating them! You know what their deaths mean for the company?”

The professor shot him a cold look. He had no patience for posturing. If the company mattered so much, why waste time with politics?

“The hospital declared brain death. Medically, that’s real death. Heartbeat, breathing, even the pulse can be artificially prolonged, but it doesn’t change the fact. You have a doctorate in medicine—should I really have to explain the basics to you?”

“You...” The director’s face flushed red. “Is that any way to speak...”

Their argument drew everyone’s attention, but none noticed that Laura had already vanished.

—

In the corridor, Laura’s pace quickened, her face betraying rare panic.

It all made sense now—the sinister smiles on the corpses. The only explanation, outside horror films, was that the person wasn’t actually dead. The hospital’s declaration of brain death was surely correct, so the inexplicable must be linked to the drug developed by StarSource Corporation. She didn’t know how the drug kept a brain-dead body’s basic functions for five hours, but she knew it was unnatural.

Why was she running? Because of the expression. If a dead person wore that smile, it was disturbing. But if someone who should be dead, but might rise at any moment, wore it—that went beyond mere horror.

Something terrible was about to happen. A chill gripped her heart. She didn’t bother warning the experts arguing behind her, nor did she seek their confirmation about the strange movements—everyone in horror movies who investigated further never lasted a minute.

The corridor was silent, the morgue’s low temperatures adding to its eerie atmosphere. The glass here was soundproof; if anything happened in the morgue, she wouldn’t hear it from her position. But as she approached the corner, a heavy bang echoed—the door had been struck. The sound came from the morgue. The door opened.

The moment Laura heard it, she kicked off her heels and sprinted for the elevator. The VIP lift was private, waiting since their arrival. She jumped in and frantically pressed the close button. She wanted out—now. As the doors slid shut, her eyes locked on the corridor corner, dreading anything that might appear. Thankfully, nothing emerged in the final seconds.

—

“Manager, what happened?” Judy, the secretary waiting in the lobby, hurried over when she saw Laura—especially noting her bare feet.

“You...” Laura was about to tell her to call the police, but paused. Had anything really happened? She hadn’t seen anything; all the horror was her own conjecture. Until the elevator closed, none of the imagined terrors materialized.

What if she was just overreacting? If she called the police and nothing happened, not only would the secret be prematurely exposed, but she’d be left with a stain—or a joke—on her career.

She steadied her breathing, regaining composure. “The professors are deep in discussion and won’t be up soon. Wait here a bit longer. At noon, send someone down to call them up for a meeting. I need a detailed report.”

“Yes, Manager!” Judy didn’t ask about the missing shoes, and Laura appreciated her discretion.

“And… don’t go down yourself. Send a security guard. If they don’t come up, notify me first. Now, please buy me a pair of shoes—size 39!”

“Yes, high heels?”

“No, sneakers.”