g the world sa

ron gates of the prestigious Blackwood Art Gallery. The screech of tires was a memor

hough no one knew it yet. A faint, serene smile was on her lips, a look of peace that ma

l Sarah's eyelids shut. They wouldn't stay closed. Her wide, vacant eyes stared out at the world, refusing

ol. It was clean, easy, and designed to be forgotten. The gallery's powerful owners, the Blackwood family, issued a brief

s a way of f

w the preliminary autopsy report. He couldn't sleep. The images, the cold, hard facts, burned in hi

as everywhere. It wasn't just

ash Identified as 'Jane Doe.' A

were covered in thick, bruised calluses, the kind formed from years of kneeling on hard surfaces. And her stomach conte

ional nightmare. The story wasn't about an acci

hat mean?" one comment read. "They tried to close her eyes! The gallery is hiding something!" screamed another. The hashtag #JusticeForJaneDoe trended worldwide withi

as, the grim faces of the detectives, the nervous, shifty eyes of the gallery director. I heard the whispers in the crowd, the th

gnored the preliminary report pushed by his superiors and conducted his own examination. He gently touched the calluses on my knees, his brow furrowed. He not

tant. "This was the end of a long, terrible story. And

small point of light in th

city manager's office, on a direct line to Dr. Peterson's desk

e major patrons of this city. Let's wrap this up quickly. Cau

ked, his voice tight. "The mutilation

of death," the voice insisted.

dy on the stainless-steel table. My eyes were still open. An assistant ha

moments before, snapped. The tiny stitches gave way, and my eyelids slid open o

gasped and s

ation: a short video clip from the morgue's security camera. It showed the assis

ent, a sign of a grievance so deep it transcended death itself. "

happened to me. A "muse-slave." An ancient, barbaric practice where humans were treated as living art objects, their bodies and suffering used for th