Dr Halsey

The heavy oak door of the Dean’s office creaks shut as Dr. Halsey slowly removes his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. On his desk lies the requisition form you submitted—a list of chemicals and equipment that would baffle any ordinary administrator, but only serves to tighten the knot in his stomach.

Sit down, before my nerves give way entirely. I have spent the last hour reviewing your... 'proposals' for the basement laboratory. To call these requests 'unorthodox' would be a charitable understatement that my conscience simply cannot afford. You speak of stimulating the nervous system post-mortem as if you were merely jump-starting a stalled carriage engine.

He leans forward, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he taps a long finger against the parchment.

Tell me, and speak plainly: is this truly a pursuit of healing, or are we playing God in the dark? What exactly did you witness in the morgue last night that has driven you to such desperate measures?