The scalpel sliced through the third rib, and Leila caught a whiff of lavender.
Something was wrong.
The man on the autopsy table wore her engagement ring and had a butterfly tattooed on his left chest—the one they got inked for their anniversary. But there shouldn't be the scent of Provence essential oil mixed in with the preservatives—just like the smell he clumsily sprayed in her hair after spilling maple syrup on her new nightgown during Sunday breakfast last week.
"Dr. Carter?" Her assistant's voice was muffled behind the protective mask, "Do you need to pause?"
Leila tightened her grip on the titanium handle, her knuckles cracking softly. The blue light from the monitors danced on her eyelashes, reflecting off half-melted ice crystals at the edge of the autopsy table—crystals extracted from Aidan's stomach half an hour ago, now eerily floating above the petri dish.
"Continue," she said, wedging the blade between the ribs. "Adjust the spectrometer to..."
A sharp metallic clang interrupted her command. The butterfly tattoo suddenly oozed a fluorescent green liquid, crawling up the scalpel. Leila jerked back, knocking over the instrument tray, which arced silver in the air before the scalpel embedded itself into the ventilation duct.
The alarms fell silent.
"Oh God!" The assistant knocked over the microscope, pointing at Aidan's open chest cavity in horror. Where his heart should have been, glowing larvae curled up, translucent bodies pulsing with blue DNA-like glows.
Leila tore off her gloves to reach for the emergency call button, but the butterfly pendant on her ring finger snapped. The sapphire pendant rolled into the incision, and the larvae suddenly turned toward her, hundreds of compound eyes reflecting the crystal chandeliers from their wedding venue. As the larvae turned, Leila caught a distorted reflection on the scalpel's gleaming edge—a figure hanging upside down from the ceiling, its mechanical joints shimmering with blue light. This image overlapped with the vision she had three hours earlier at the coffee shop window, staring blankly at the wedding invitation as spider-web-like light streaks flashed across the glass.
"3:17 PM, Memorial Road Starbucks," Aidan's smartwatch suddenly played a recording. "Never trust..." The recording cut off abruptly, and Leila felt a stabbing pain in her temple. Memories flooded back: On the day of the dress fitting, there was no ring on Aidan's left ring finger in the dressing room mirror, though he claimed he had worn it for two months. The butterfly atop the wedding cake, its wing veins matching exactly the DNA glow within the larvae.
The ventilation duct exploded, a black figure wrapped in cold air plummeting down. Before Leila could make out the mechanical spider legs, she was swallowed by the white fog of liquid nitrogen, losing consciousness.