The meeting ended with Jeong Rok’s words, a somber pronouncement that underscored the gravity of their situation.
The team members scattered, bustling to fulfill their respective roles, a flurry of activity born of renewed determination.
Each detective, burdened by the weight of the unsolved cases, moved with a sense of urgency, the echoes of Jeong Rok’s final commands still ringing in their ears.
They knew they were racing against time, and every second counted.
Jung Yoon, his mind already churning with new possibilities, headed straight for the forensic science team, his steps purposeful, a sense of impending discovery propelling him forward.
He felt a flicker of anticipation, a nascent hope that had been rekindled in the midst of their recent setbacks.
“I was actually waiting for your call.”
As he entered the brightly lit, sterile environment of the forensic science lab, the leader of the forensic science team, a woman with keen eyes and a perpetually focused demeanor who was in charge of fingerprint identification, greeted Jung Yoon with a knowing smile.
It was a familiar ritual, the exchange of information between two interdependent branches of law enforcement, a collaboration built on mutual respect and shared goals.
The team leader, without preamble, pulled Jung Yoon to his desk, her movements efficient and practiced, showed him the monitor, and clicked her tongue with a regretful expression, a subtle indication of the difficult news she was about to deliver.
Her face, usually impassive, showed a hint of professional disappointment.
Jung Yoon shut his eyes tightly as he heard the initial results, bracing himself for the inevitable.
The initial wave of disappointment was palpable, a bitter taste in his mouth, a familiar sensation whenever a promising lead fizzled out.
It was hard to hide his disappointment as even the slightest hope seemed to extinguish, fading into the oppressive darkness of the unsolved case, like a fragile flame snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind.
Jung Yoon couldn’t help but sigh repeatedly, a deep, weary exhalation of frustration that seemed to carry the weight of countless dead ends.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from the monitor, a black hole of unfulfilled expectations, and just ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation and profound weariness that spoke volumes about the toll this case was taking on him.
The forensic team leader, sensing his profound disheartened state, glanced at Jung Yoon, her expression softening slightly, then scratched her chin thoughtfully and gestured towards the monitor, a hint of something more, something unexpected, in her eyes.
She moved the mouse with a deliberate click and switched to another screen, a new set of data appearing before them, bathed in the cool glow of the monitor.
Jung Yoon, who had been deep in thought, his hand still on his forehead, his mind wrestling with the latest setback, slowly looked towards the new screen the forensic team leader had opened.
A flicker of hope, barely perceptible, ignited within him, a tiny spark in the vast darkness.
He felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a change in the forensic leader’s demeanor that hinted at a new development.
The forensic team leader smiled faintly, a small, knowing curve of her lips, and looked up at Jung Yoon, a silent invitation to a new discovery, a subtle nod that conveyed a significant breakthrough.
“Just in case, I analyzed everything. You know, sometimes you just get a hunch,” she began, her voice calm and measured, building the suspense.
“I found a few matching fingerprints from the storage box you brought and the ones we found at the previous cattle shed. The quality wasn’t great, but enough for a preliminary match. But what’s surprising is that there’s a fingerprint that Team Leader Moon asked me to analyze, right? The partial print on the note, about 1cm. It matches that too.”
Her voice, though calm, held a note of quiet triumph, a professional satisfaction that resonated with Jung Yoon, a melody of success after a long period of discord.
The implications of her words began to unfold in his mind, a complex tapestry woven from seemingly disparate threads.
Jung Yoon, who had been listening intently to the team leader’s words, his breath held in anticipation, widened his eyes, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him.
The implications of her statement were immediate and profound, like a sudden burst of light in a dark room.
“Which fingerprint?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, a mixture of anticipation and disbelief, as if afraid to break the fragile spell of the moment.
“According to the official document, it’s listed as a fingerprint from the Deokdong-gun case. It was a fingerprint collected from a string found at the crime scene years ago, but it couldn’t be identified at the time due to its partial nature and lack of a match in the existing database. Since you brought it, I compared them, and it’s the same person.”
The team leader explained, her words precise and factual, yet they resonated with the weight of a monumental discovery, a link spanning years and cases.
The revelation hung in the air, connecting two seemingly unrelated crimes with an undeniable, scientific precision.
Jung Yoon’s face, which had been dark and drawn for a while, brightened slightly, a hesitant smile beginning to form, chasing away the shadows of despair.
With the team leader’s additional words, his expression completely recovered, his eyes gleaming with a renewed sense of purpose, a fire rekindled.
He felt a profound sense of gratitude for her meticulous work, for her persistence in the face of what seemed like dead ends.
Jung Yoon bowed his head respectfully, a gesture of profound gratitude that transcended mere professional courtesy, before leaving the forensic science office, his steps lighter, his heart thrumming with excitement, the rhythm of a breakthrough.
“If you bring the suspect’s fingerprints, we can compare them with these results to see if they’re the same person. Is there anyone else you’d like to compare them with?”
The team leader called out, her voice following him into the hallway, a clear invitation to the next crucial step, a pathway to certainty.
Jung Yoon, though he stood on this earth due to abnormal phenomena that science could never explain, a man who had seen things that defied logic and reason, at this moment, was profoundly grateful for and marveled at all the scientific advancements that had made such great progress.
The irony was not lost on him, this reliance on empirical data in a world he knew contained the unexplainable, but in this moment, only gratitude remained for the tangible results it offered.
He was a man caught between two worlds, the inexplicable and the meticulously verifiable, and in this instance, science had offered a lifeline, a concrete path forward.
“Yes. There is someone to compare them with.”
His voice was firm, resolute, echoing with the certainty of a new direction, a name already forming in his mind.
His footsteps quickened with a premonition that light would appear sooner than he expected, a premonition that felt like a powerful current pulling him forward.
The thrill of finally discovering a way out of the seemingly endless, pitch-black tunnel, a tunnel he had navigated for so long in darkness, brought an indescribable sense of elation, a surging hope that propelled him forward with a renewed sense of purpose, a sense of nearing the truth.
***
“W-what, what is this for? Hah, m-money, I’ll g-give you money. I won’t ever call the police. …Hmph, ugh. Ugh. Just save… just save me…”
Her parched white lips were cracked and bleeding, a testament to her desperate pleas, each word a struggle.
Her body, dirtied from rolling on the ground, was covered in wounds, gruesome souvenirs of a brutal struggle, dust and grime clinging to her skin.
Cold, expressionless eyes swept over it without a flicker of emotion, devoid of any empathy, any hint of humanity, like a predator observing its prey.
When he showed no reaction, a chilling silence that amplified her terror, the boy’s face a stone mask of indifference, the woman soon began to sob uncontrollably, her body wracked with shuddering cries that echoed faintly in the desolate space.
The corner of the boy’s mouth curled up in a twisted smile as he watched her, a macabre delight in her suffering, a chilling testament to his profound detachment.
It was strange and amusing, a perverse form of entertainment that fed his darkest desires.
The sight of the woman, who had been looking down on him just yesterday with disdain, now crying her eyes out at his feet, reduced to a pathetic, groveling heap, was quite…
Funny.
A chilling amusement that spoke volumes about his twisted psyche, his complete lack of moral compass.
The boy, who had been watching the bound woman struggling with a delighted expression for a long time, reveling in her despair, eventually stepped back, as if taking a moment to savor the spectacle, to let the torment ripen.
He then beckoned his slave, who had been hesitating behind him, nervously observing the unfolding horror, his face a mask of fear and forced compliance.
“…I, I. I… why are you doing this to me? Just that. Just tell me that, hic, sob. Just tell me…”
Upon hearing footsteps, the woman thrashed even more wildly, her voice a desperate plea for understanding, a futile attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible, to find reason in madness.
The boy, who had been gazing at her pathetic state with boredom, a detached amusement that bordered on contempt, approached his slave who stood before him, trembling slightly, his eyes wide with terror.
And with a very gentle voice, a horrifying contrast to the brutal scene, he whispered to him, a chilling intimacy in his tone that was more menacing than any shout.
“You remember what hyung said, right?”
The question, though soft, carried the weight of an unspoken threat, a reminder of their perverse pact.
At the soft words whispered close to his ear, his utterly weak slave, who had been leaning against his arm, a picture of complete subjugation, quickly nodded, a subservient obedience etched on his face, his movements jerky and involuntary.
The boy chuckled, amused by the slave’s prompt compliance, by the ease with which he could manipulate him.
Feeling proud, a dark pride swelling within him, the boy stroked his head, a perverse gesture of affection, then gave the slave a shove on the back, nudging him forward, towards the terrified woman.
He brought out his weapon, a blunt, heavy object, in front of the woman, who was crawling like an insect, her strength ebbing away, her movements desperate and futile.
“What should we do with a woman like that?”
The question, though addressed to his slave, was a command, a twisted test of obedience, a sadistic invitation to participate.
“T-that, that kind… must, mu-must, d-die.”
The slave stuttered, his voice laced with fear and a chilling acceptance of the inevitable, each word a struggle.
The slave who said that looked at the boy, seeking affirmation, a desperate plea for approval, for a sign that he was doing what was expected.
The boy, who responded with infinite mercy to the one seeking permission, his lips curving in a faint, cruel smile, then watched all the ensuing actions with satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with a dark pleasure, absorbing every detail of the brutal spectacle.
And the finale was delivered by his own hand, a perverse ritual of control and ultimate dominance, a final act of power.
The boy, wearing work gloves, the coarse fabric a stark contrast to the delicate skin beneath, climbed onto the back of the woman who was on the verge of death, her body a silent testament to her struggle, almost motionless.
And he raised the blunt weapon he had brought high above his head, a macabre halo against the pale sky, the object glinting menacingly in the dim light.
Whoosh, swish.
The sound of it cutting through the air and falling mixed heavily with the woman’s screams, a symphony of brutality, a guttural cry of pain that was quickly silenced.
Finally, the woman’s resistance ceased. Her screams faded, replaced by a chilling silence that enveloped the desolate space.
The boy, intuiting her death, stood up.
He lightly wiped away the blood from below his chin, a casual gesture that underscored his detachment, his utter lack of remorse, and stepped back.
Then, he turned and opened the bag he had prepared.
This was to savor the most interesting entertainment that would mark the finale of all these acts, a perverse ritual of consumption.
The boy continued the brutal act without hesitation, a cold, calculated precision to his movements, devoid of any emotional tremor.
He made the slave watch it all, a forced complicity, a psychological torment designed to break him, to bind him inextricably to the horror.
There was no real need to, but he needed to show it to him until the end as a punishment for his true slave, by making him participate in his entertainment instead, a perverse form of bonding that forged a chain of shared guilt.
The boy, having completely finished the act, a grotesque masterpiece of cruelty, stood up.
He picked up the severed nipple, a kind of trophy, a gruesome memento of his triumph, closed his bag with a decisive snap, and called his slave back, his voice a low, commanding tone.
At the boy’s gesture, the slave, with a meek expression, his shoulders slumped in defeat, began to clean up the blood-soaked corpse, his movements automatic, devoid of any genuine will, like a puppet on strings.
The boy watched his slave, who was diligently carrying out the gruesome act, with an utterly innocent face, a chilling mask that belied the horror of his actions, a perfect facade of youthful innocence.
About ten minutes passed.
The boy, who had been standing still, watching the slave dispose of the body, a silent, watchful observer, suddenly turned his head and looked somewhere, his gaze piercing the distance, as if sensing an invisible presence.
And upon confirming the silhouette of his real slave, who had been waiting, lurking in the shadows, he twisted his lips into a chilling smile, a silent acknowledgment of his presence, a triumphant gesture.
It was all part of his plan, meticulously orchestrated, every detail accounted for, so the slave’s appearance came as no surprise, merely the next stage in his twisted game.
The boy, putting his arm around the shoulder of the slave who had finished his task and was returning to him, his arm a possessive weight, stood side by side with him and deliberately walked towards the tree where his real slave was hiding, as if to make sure he saw them, to ensure the full impact of his power, to inflict maximum psychological torment.
“Good job. You did very well.”
His voice, though seemingly appreciative, held a subtle undertone of condescension, a patronizing tone that subtly reinforced his dominance.
“Th-thank you…”
The slave stammered, his voice barely audible, his eyes downcast, unable to meet the boy’s gaze.
“You’re not the one who should be thankful. There’s someone else, aren’t there?”
The boy passed by his real slave who was hiding, speaking in a loud voice as if to ensure he was heard, a deliberate provocation, a knife twist to an open wound.
And turning his head subtly so the slave in his arms wouldn’t notice, he sent a knowing glance towards the base of the tree, a silent message of triumph, a cruel wink of recognition.
The boy smiled, a chilling, triumphant smirk that stretched his lips, and the slave cried, his silent sobs shaking his entire body, a profound despair radiating from him.
‘Don’t cry.’
The boy, realizing the cry of his most beloved slave, the one whose agony he truly savored, the one who’s broken spirit he cherished, turned the trembling slave in his arms around and silently mouthed words of comfort, telling him not to cry, a perverse display of concern that was nothing more than a twisted game.
However, the slave could not stop crying.
No comfort could salvage his shattered world, his spirit irrevocably broken by the horrors he had witnessed and been forced to endure.
The horror he had witnessed, the complicity he had been forced into, had irrevocably broken him, leaving him adrift in a sea of despair.
“Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?’ Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.'”
Warm breath scattered over Yong-baek’s head as he lay prostrate, the words of scripture a cruel irony in the face of his own despair, a stark contrast to the unforgivable acts he had just witnessed.
The time he had wished to become an adult, to escape the suffocating grip of his brother’s influence, to find his own path, had been shattered meaninglessly.
As his younger brother, who had become a slave in his stead due to being a defeated soldier, began to go out frequently at night, drawing him deeper into a world of unspeakable cruelty, Yong-baek eventually had no choice but to agree to the meeting he had so vehemently refused, a desperate attempt to protect Jung-joon, to shield him from the encroaching darkness.
Yong-baek tried to hold the horrific scene he had witnessed last night in his mouth and prevent himself from spitting it out, to contain the bile of disgust and terror that threatened to overwhelm him.
-Hmph, ugh.
Ugh.
Just save… just save me….
But despite his efforts, the woman’s voice echoed in his ears with his throbbing heartbeat, a relentless torment that would forever haunt him.
Yong-baek barely swallowed down the tears that flowed like blood, hot and stinging, and he shook his head, scattering the voice, attempting to dislodge the horrifying memory that clung to him like a shroud.
It was a clear sin that he should confess, a moral imperative that screamed within him.
Yet, he couldn’t.
He simply couldn’t bring himself to put his brother’s hands, which had become the weapon of the crime, on the guillotine, to condemn him to such a fate.
Yong-baek did not believe in God, had never found solace in faith, had always relied on his own strength.
But at this moment, why did the Bible stories he had occasionally heard come to mind?
The words of forgiveness, of divine mercy, seemed to mock his desperate situation, offering a fleeting glimpse of hope that was immediately extinguished by the harsh reality. Yong-baek thought, his mind racing, grappling with the moral dilemma.
Since I have committed a greater sin, by witnessing this and not intervening, if there is a God, please, please free my poor brother from the hands of this vile wretch, from the clutches of this monster who controlled him.
He prayed, a desperate plea to a God he didn’t believe in, a last resort in his profound despair, a silent cry for intervention.
“Ugh…!”
It was just as he had barely finished his desperate prayer, his silent plea hanging in the air.
A bone-crushing pain, as if something was breaking along his lower back, spread throughout his body, a searing agony that stole his breath.
A tingling pain followed, a chilling numbness creeping over him, a precursor to something far worse.
And soon, blood flowing from between his buttocks dripped onto his pulled-down pants, a gruesome stain of his humiliation and suffering, a chilling testament to the abuse he was enduring.
Yong-baek wiped away the tears pooling below his chin with the back of his hand and simply closed his eyes, surrendering to the pain, to the inevitable, a silent scream of agony.
His face, pressed into the straw, was completely soaked with tears, a silent testament to his anguish, the damp fibers clinging to his skin.
His tightly clenched fists, held to endure the pain, bore deep marks from his fingernails, crescent-shaped wounds that mirrored the torment of his soul, physical manifestations of his internal struggle.