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He clicked.

The ghost leaned in, peered through a jeweler’s loupe that materialized from thin air. After a long silence, he smiled. “Margin’s a mess. But you didn’t quit. And you didn’t ask for the answer key.” He snapped his fingers.

“Correct answer: 900°C. You answered: ‘I don’t know.’ Grade: F. Consequence: Your next patient will feel every drill stroke.”

But it was his .

“What is the melting point of Type III gold alloy?” it typed into a chat box that appeared unbidden.

“Define. Working. Cast.”