i could make him worse

—

It's not like the pay was bad at the hospital. It's just that it wasn't enough. Especially for a struggling adult living on your own.

You heard rumors, of course. That Dr. Kenjaku was one of the brightest, most talented instructors at the Royal Jujutsu Medical School. That he'd been kicked out of the medical school for something unmentionable, enough to permanently ban him from campus. Whatever his offense was had been redacted in reports.

But when you answered the sketchy request for employment, posted haphazardly on the bulletin at the local pub, you hardly expected to find him. He was young--younger than you thought he'd be, considering his qualifications. At first glance, he was charming, with a soft voice and pleasant smile.

You pretended not to notice the stitches atop his head, and what they entailed.

He was perfectly polite, and the pay he offered was too good to give up. And yet...

You grimace as you eye the body that he dug up for you. An older man who'd fallen off his carriage and gotten trampled. In his 40s, stoutly--probably could've been your ex if you squinted. You try not to think of what Dr. Kenjaku's "scientific experiments" entail, but they involve collecting body parts. And with your training, he trusts you to identify the best ones.

You snap on another pair of gloves, pinching your nose and glancing upwards, praying to whoever out there is listening for the mental fortitude before picking the saw back up.

—

"Do you think God is a just deity?"

You exhale a breath, washing your hands of the blood and grime that it had collected. No matter how often you tried to, it wouldn't seem to wash off completely.

"Theology questions?"

He chuckles. "You're a smart girl. I'm curious."

You weren't sure if he meant that in a sarcastic way. It was the same tone he spoke with his other assistant, Jogo—a short, squat man with black teeth, one intact eye, and a fussy attitude. Kenjaku always spoke to him in a placating, slow way that couldn't come off as anything but patronizing. But you're beginning to see that maybe... maybe the doctor enjoyed testing those close to him, picking apart their brains.

(Literally.)

"No."

"No?" Intrigue colors his tone.

"If he was... I wouldn't be struggling to make ends meet like this. I wouldn't have dabbled in..." You hold your tongue. "Less savory alternatives. If he was, we wouldn't be desecrating bodies. He would've struck us down by now."

He hums thoughtfully, stepping closer to you.

"Divine punishment is too resolute. Perhaps God has turned a blind eye to what goes on in this laboratory."

"Or perhaps..." He says lightly. "He never existed to begin with."

—

"Human life is fragile. One lifespan is a mere dot in the grand flow of time. I'm interested in... extending life."

"Extending." You parrot, uncomprehending.

"Philosophers describe a fountain of youth. In folklore and tales of old, the gods are immortal, never ceasing to exist. Why then, do us humans have to return to ash? What if we could also become immortal?"

You exhale a puff from your cigarette, eyeing him strangely.

"What?"

"I mean, I'd hate to live forever. Never dying, always suffering. That sounds like an awful existence."

The silence is defeaning. You get the sense you've disappointed him with that answer.

—

You're working late into the night when the lab is ransacked.

The thieves took coins, antiques from Kenjaku's collection. Your attempts to secure the door to the laboratory were unsuccessful. And after getting in tussle over a silver prosthetic, you're shoved into a cabinet, which topples over with you with a loud crash of glass and ceramic. You gasp for air, only to wince at the sharp stab to your chest.

You look down. A thick shard of glass lays straight above your chest, red seeping into your white protective wear. Oh. Fuck. You're dying. All you can think of is the pain, and a horrible numbing sensation spreading from your chest.

Then he's before you. The stitched forehead. His usually calm visage twisted with distraught.

"Fancy s-seeing you--." You attempt to say, before something catches in your throat. You cough up blood, and speaking any more feels impossible. He winces, kneeling down next to you.

"Whatever..." He murmurs softly, cradling your face. Gentle despite the heat in his gaze. "Will I do without my pretty little assistant?"

Hire someone else, you mean to say, but that same choking sensation interrupts you. A wet, wheezing cough ransacks your body, and his face is specked with blood.

"You told me before that to live eternally is a curse. But truthfully... I don't care. I'm a selfish man. Selfish enough to override your wishes."