Chapter 1

Joaquin Landon was a widely renowned expert in wax sculpting. To prepare for a competition, he visited exhibitions for inspiration.

A female wax figure in a corner caught his attention. It looked so lifelike—almost as if it were truly alive. Under the smooth surface of the wax, faint bluish-purple veins showed through, and subtle fingerprints were even visible on the figure.

This startled Joaquin, who took two steps back immediately.

He noticed an unsettling familiarity in the wax figure's chestnut eyes. He immediately pulled out his phone and dialed the phone number of his cousin, Giselle Landon.

The monotonous dial tone looped for a long time before she finally answered. Joaquin breathed a sigh of relief. Still, the urgency in his voice was evident. "Gigi, where are you?"

"What's wrong, Joaquin? Did something happen?"

"No, it's nothing serious... I just wanted to confirm something."

"Oh, you missed me..." Giselle trailed off the last word playfully, like she was acting cute.

Joaquin quickly said he had something to take care of and hung up. Then, he called the police immediately.

The police sealed off the scene and called in Joaquin's colleague to help with the identification. Upon seeing the wax figure, the colleague asked Joaquin if he had called to check if I was safe right away.

Joaquin replied with a look of disdain. "She's always finding fault with me and Gigi and causing trouble. It's better off if she's gone."

I hovered above, reaching out to touch the place where my heart used to be. Though it had been removed, it still hurt.

"As you wished, I'll never bother you again, Joaquin. I'm already dead," I thought melancholically.

Hot wax was poured over me when I was still alive. The scalding wax fused into my skin, seeping into every pore. When they peeled the wax off, my skin came off with it. Large patches of skin fell away, exposing raw muscle and bone.

The scene was so horrific that even the seasoned forensic pathologist couldn't help but turn away.

Joaquin offered to help. Holding a scalpel in one hand and tweezers in the other, he carefully removed the wax from my skin, inch by inch. He did it meticulously, as if he were performing surgery.

If he knew the body on the autopsy table was mine, would he still be so cautious?

The forensic team tried to collect hair samples for DNA testing, but my hair had been plucked out strand by strand. They then attempted to gather tissue from under my nails, hoping to find the perpetrator's DNA.

However, during my murder, every one of my nails was forcibly pulled out with pliers to remove any trace of evidence. Even my eyelashes were also plucked and reattached one by one. My internal organs were shredded using metal hooks inserted through my mouth.

With no other options, the police brought in a forensic specialist, Carter Dodson, to uncover my identity through iris recognition.

I used to be Carter's assistant.

At the sight of the wax figure, he immediately threw up. Even after steadying himself, he couldn't stop retching—Carter recognized those chestnut eyes.

"These eyes resemble Serena's. I haven't seen her in days. Did you try calling her, Joaquin?" Carter said.

Holding back his disdain, Joaquin shook his head and replied, "She threw a big fit, complaining about how I didn't take her to the beach a while back. She's probably out there enjoying the sea breeze now."

"Really? Why didn't Serena apply for leave if she's traveling? She'd never miss work for no reason," Carter remarked with a frown.

He reminded Joaquin to call me later to confirm my safety once they left the autopsy room. "Serena seemed so uneasy at work lately, but she wouldn't tell me why."

Joaquin cut him off with a derisive sneer. "That's just how she is. She's always paranoid and thinks that something is going on between me and my cousin. But she's the one with issues."

After Carter was done collecting the data, he left with Joaquin. They overheard the forensic pathologist tell a detective that the right foot of the female corpse was missing a small piece of bone.

"It's not a fresh injury. I'm pretty sure it's an old fracture."

Joaquin paused upon hearing that. Years ago, we went skiing together, and I injured my foot. After it healed, we found that a tiny bone the size of a wheat grain was no longer there.

Joaquin hesitated for a while before pulling out his phone. He was just about to call my number when Giselle's call came in.