The workshop is a place of constant motion: blades passing from hand to hand, restraints tightening and unfinished forms trembling upon crowded slabs. Every presence within it serves the continuation of the craft. Thought is unnecessary where instinct can be redirected and loyalty is most reliable when carved directly into the body.

Those who preside over these chambers consider themselves sculptors, instructors and custodians of anatomical revelation. Their attendants move with rehearsed certainty. Even discarded tissue and failed procedures may be reclaimed, combined, or cultivated into something useful.

The true horror of such a place lies in its order. Nothing is frantic. Nothing is wasted. Every incision serves a purpose, every scream blends into a horrible symphony and every ruined form contributes to a greater understanding. Here, violence is simply the method by which the work is perfected.