The rain had not stopped for three days.

Seoul was a blur of headlights, wet asphalt, and the hollow echo of tires slicing through puddles. Detective Han Jiwon leaned against the frame of her unmarked car, her coat clinging damply to her shoulders as she stared at the building before her. An abandoned hospital—gray, windowless, like a carcass rotting in the middle of the city.

The call had come in at 2:14 a.m. Another body. Another message.

She ran her thumb along the scar on her wrist, a nervous habit she could never quite shake. No matter how many cases she had handled, something about nights like this unsettled her. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the silence. Or maybe it was the smell she knew she would encounter the moment she stepped inside—coppery blood laced with mildew and decay.

“Detective Han,” a voice called. Officer Kim Yoori, the rookie assigned to shadow her, jogged up with a notepad pressed to her chest. “Forensics is already inside. They said you should see it yourself.”

Jiwon pushed off the car, her boots splashing in a shallow puddle. “Show me.”

Inside, the hospital groaned under the storm’s weight. Rainwater dripped from broken ceiling tiles, echoing against cracked linoleum. The air was thick, heavy with mold and something sharper.

And then she saw it.

The body lay sprawled in the middle of what had once been a surgical ward. A young woman, no more than twenty-five. Her hair was plastered to her face, her eyes wide open as if frozen in the last moment of terror. Across her chest, written in a jagged smear of blood, were three words:

“The dead remember.”

Jiwon crouched, her breath steady but her pulse thrumming in her ears. She studied the letters carefully—too deliberate to be random, too raw to be anything but intentional.

“The victim’s name is Hwang Seojin,” said a voice behind her. Dr. Kang Minjae, the forensic pathologist, stood in his usual pristine gloves, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Twenty-four. Reported missing two nights ago. The cause of death appears to be strangulation. Bruising on the neck, fractured hyoid bone. The blood used for the writing… it’s hers.”

Jiwon’s jaw tightened. “And the message?”

Minjae’s brow furrowed. “That’s not my department. But it’s the third victim in two months with a phrase written in blood. Different words each time, but the same pattern.”

She nodded grimly. The first read, “They see us.” The second, “Shadows don’t sleep.” And now—“The dead remember.”

She stood, scanning the walls. There were no signs of forced entry. No cameras working in the building. Just the silence of a place forgotten by time.

Officer Yoori hovered at the doorway, visibly shaken. “Detective… it almost feels like… like the victims are trying to say something.”

“Victims don’t talk after they die,” Jiwon said sharply. Her tone cut through the room, though her own chest felt heavy. She hated when rookies gave voice to the very thoughts she tried to bury.

But she couldn’t ignore it either. Not when her brother’s case, unsolved for five years, had ended with him sprawled in an alley with no explanation, his face pale under the same rain. She had seen his eyes, wide and accusing, as if asking her why she hadn’t saved him.

Minjae cleared his throat. “There’s more.” He gestured to the victim’s hand. Clutched in her stiffened fingers was a small scrap of paper, smudged but legible.

Jiwon pulled on gloves and pried it open. The ink was smeared, the words uneven as though written in haste.

“He is among you.”

The room seemed to constrict, the shadows pressing closer.

“Among us?” Yoori whispered. “Does that mean… the killer’s someone in law enforcement?”

“Or someone who wants us to think that,” Jiwon replied flatly, though the weight in her chest said otherwise.

She bagged the note and stood, turning to Minjae. “Time of death?”

“Estimated thirty-six hours ago,” he said. “Which means she was killed before the second storm hit. No defensive wounds, no sign of struggle. Either she trusted the killer, or she was subdued instantly.”

Jiwon exhaled slowly. A predator who killed with precision, leaving messages like breadcrumbs. But breadcrumbs to what?

The storm outside grew louder, rattling broken windows. She felt the chill seep through her bones. Something about this crime scene wasn’t just another case. It felt… deliberate. Personal.

“Detective Han.” Yoori’s voice trembled as she pointed at the wall.

Jiwon followed her gaze. Faintly scratched into the peeling paint were initials: H.J.

Her breath caught. Her throat tightened.

Her brother’s initials.

The sound of rain filled the silence, beating against broken glass, drowning out the pounding of her heart.

Minjae looked at her sharply. “Jiwon. Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” she cut him off, though her voice betrayed the crack she couldn’t hide. She pulled out her phone, snapping photos of the scratches, the words, the body. Evidence. Proof. Anything to stop her mind from spiraling.

But deep inside, she knew. This wasn’t just a murder. This was a message. To her.

She pocketed her phone and stood, her shadow stretching across the ruined floor.

“The killer wants us to listen,” she murmured, half to herself. “And we will. But they should remember—”

She turned to face Minjae and Yoori, her eyes sharp despite the storm raging inside her.

“—the dead don’t lie.”

The flashing red-and-blue lights painted the hospital’s façade in broken color, a distorted reminder of law and order against the night’s decay. Officers sealed off the perimeter with yellow tape, their radios crackling through the downpour.

Detective Han Jiwon stood at the edge of the cordon, staring up at the abandoned hospital. She had been in hundreds of crime scenes before, but the weight of this one clung to her chest like a vise.

She turned the evidence bag over in her hand—the scrap of paper that read “He is among you.” Her reflection flickered against the plastic, blurred by raindrops.

A familiar gravelly voice cut through the storm. “Han Jiwon.”

She pivoted to find Captain Park Hyunwoo, his gray hair plastered against his forehead, rain streaking his trench coat. His presence was commanding, a man who had seen too much and trusted too little.

“You were first on scene?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you find?”

Jiwon hesitated. The initials on the wall burned in her memory, but she kept her voice clinical. “Victim identified as Hwang Seojin. Cause of death strangulation. The killer left a message again—written in her blood.”

Captain Park’s eyes narrowed. “Same as the others.”

“Worse,” Jiwon said. “This one feels… deliberate. Calculated. And there’s this.” She handed him the bagged note.

He studied it, jaw tightening. “He is among you.” His gaze lifted to her. “The press will eat this alive. You realize what this implies, right?”

Jiwon’s lips thinned. “That someone in authority could be involved.”

“Or,” Park said, voice low and clipped, “it’s a deliberate ploy to tear this department apart. We cannot afford paranoia. Not with Councilman Choi Taesung already breathing down our necks.”

The name cut through Jiwon like a knife. Taesung—the charismatic politician who had built his career on promises of “safety and reform.” His influence reached deep into law enforcement. Too deep.

“Sir,” Jiwon said carefully, “three victims in two months. All killed the same way. All with messages. If Taesung’s worried about appearances, maybe he should stop shielding the wrong people.”

Park’s eyes hardened. “Careful, Jiwon. You don’t want to start a war you can’t win.”

Before she could reply, a voice called from the hospital entrance. Seo Harin, the journalist, stood under her umbrella, her press badge catching the lamplight. Her sharp eyes locked on Jiwon like a predator finding prey.

“Detective Han,” she said smoothly, “care to comment on why another victim has been found in an abandoned building just three kilometers from your precinct?”

Jiwon’s stomach coiled. The last thing she needed was Harin stirring the pot. The woman had made a name for herself digging into corruption and police failures. She was relentless, ambitious, and dangerously close to truths best left buried.

“No comment,” Jiwon said curtly, moving past her.

Harin’s smirk widened. “The people have a right to know, Detective. Three bodies with cryptic messages? The city is already whispering about a serial killer. Unless… there’s something else you’re hiding?”

Jiwon stopped in her tracks. For a second, the thunder overhead drowned out everything else. She turned slowly, her eyes cold.

“If you want to play detective, Harin, apply to the academy. Otherwise, stay out of my way.”

The journalist’s smirk faltered, but only slightly. “Funny,” she said softly, “I heard your brother’s case was never solved. Maybe you’re not the right person to be leading this investigation.”

The words struck like a blade. Jiwon’s fists clenched at her sides, but she forced her face into neutrality. She refused to give Harin the satisfaction of seeing the wound she had cut open.

“Goodnight, Ms. Seo,” Jiwon said, walking away.

---

Inside the precinct an hour later, the storm had softened to a steady drizzle. Jiwon sat at her desk, the case files spread before her like a broken puzzle. Three victims. Three messages. They see us. Shadows don’t sleep. The dead remember.

And now, He is among you.

She traced the words with her finger, her mind spinning. Each message grew bolder, more direct. What was the killer trying to say?

A file photo of her brother, Han Jihoon, stared back at her from the corner of her desk. Five years since his unsolved death. Same look in his eyes as Seojin’s—wide, startled, unfinished. She closed her eyes, her chest tightening with the memory.

“Jiwon.”

She looked up. Minjae stood in the doorway, his white shirt still damp from the rain, a folder under his arm. His expression was calm, but his eyes betrayed concern.

“You didn’t tell Park about the initials on the wall.”

Her stomach dropped. “You saw them?”

“I always see everything,” he said quietly, laying the folder on her desk. “But I didn’t mention it either.”

“Why not?”

“Because if we’re right… if those initials were meant for you, then this is bigger than the department. Bigger than any of us. And if we say it out loud, Park will pull you off the case.”

Jiwon exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair. She hated that he was right. But silence was a dangerous gamble.

“What’s in the file?” she asked.

He opened it. Photos of Seojin’s autopsy, along with a strange detail: a faint mark burned into her shoulder blade. A symbol—half a circle intersected by a line.

“She had this scar,” Minjae said. “Not from the killer. It’s old. Years old. Same marking was found on victim number two. Different locations on the body, but identical symbol.”

Jiwon’s pulse quickened. “You’re telling me the victims were connected before they died?”

Minjae nodded slowly. “It’s starting to look that way.”

The room felt colder. Jiwon rubbed her temples, fighting the exhaustion pulling at her. Three victims, tied together by an old scar. Messages written in blood. A note claiming the killer was among them.

And initials scratched into the wall—her brother’s initials.

Her phone buzzed. An unknown number. She hesitated before answering.

A distorted voice crackled through. “Detective Han.”

Her breath caught. “Who is this?”

A pause. Then, softly:

“Listen closely. He’s already watching you.”

The line went dead.

Jiwon stared at her phone, the hum of the precinct fading around her. Outside, the rain began again, harder this time, like a warning.

And for the first time since her brother’s death, she felt it in her bones.

This case wasn’t just about finding a killer.

The killer had already found her.

By morning, Seoul had awakened restless.

Headlines blared across every news outlet: “Third Victim Found in Abandoned Hospital.” Photos of police cars circling the decrepit building splashed across social media, alongside shaky videos of officers shielding the crime scene from curious onlookers.

Detective Han Jiwon sat at her desk, her coffee long gone cold. On her computer screen, articles scrolled endlessly, all quoting the same line:

“The dead remember.”

The words that had been smeared across Seojin’s chest. Words the public was never supposed to see.

Her jaw tightened. Someone had leaked it.

A knock on the doorframe pulled her from her thoughts. Captain Park Hyunwoo stood there, grim as ever. He held up a tablet with one of the articles displayed.

“Care to explain how our crime scene became public property overnight?”

Jiwon kept her voice steady. “I didn’t leak it.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Park replied, lowering his voice. “But someone wants this story out, and they want fear. Councilman Choi Taesung has already called. He wants a press conference by tonight.”

Of course he did. Taesung thrived on appearances. A serial killer in Seoul meant panic, and panic meant political opportunity.

“What do you want me to do?” Jiwon asked.

“Keep your head down,” Park said. “Do your job. Let me handle Taesung.” His gaze softened for just a second. “And Jiwon—don’t let this case eat you alive. Not again.”

The reminder stung. Not again. As though her brother’s death had been her failure alone. She bit back the response that threatened to spill and simply nodded.

By late afternoon, the precinct buzzed with reporters, cameras flashing every time an officer passed through the lobby. Jiwon slipped out the back exit, preferring the shadows over the circus.

She knew where she had to go.

A narrow stairwell led her to the basement of an old arcade, the hum of neon lights mixing with the faint sound of 8-bit music. At the far corner, tucked behind a row of disused pinball machines, was a door marked only with a crude spray-painted symbol: a fox with a jagged tail.

She knocked three times, paused, then once more.

The door opened, and Jung Daehyun leaned casually against the frame. His dyed silver hair caught the glow of the arcade, his lips curled into a smirk.

“Well, well. Detective Han. If it isn’t my favorite law-abiding citizen.”

Jiwon crossed her arms. “Cut the act, Daehyun. I need information.”

He ushered her inside, where the room glowed with the light of multiple monitors. Lines of code danced across screens, surveillance feeds flickered in boxes, and the low hum of processors filled the air.

“Word is,” Daehyun said, sliding into his chair, “your dead girl made quite a splash online. Hashtags trending, conspiracy forums buzzing. You want me to tell you who leaked the photos?”

“Start there.”

Daehyun typed quickly, the clack of keys sharp against the silence. “Journalist named Seo Harin got them first. But she wasn’t the source. She bought them. Trace leads to an anonymous uploader—encrypted, bouncing through six different proxies. Not your average hacktivist. This was someone who wanted the message to spread, but stayed invisible.”

Jiwon’s stomach tightened. “So the killer wants the public to know.”

“Looks like it.” Daehyun leaned back, eyes glinting. “And here’s the kicker: all three victims had their names flagged on private message boards months before they died. Lists of ‘undesirable witnesses.’ People tied to corruption scandals. Your latest victim, Hwang Seojin? She was once a student intern in Councilman Taesung’s office.”

The name hit like a hammer. Jiwon’s mind raced. Taesung, again. Always circling closer.

“You’re sure?” she pressed.

Daehyun grinned. “I don’t deal in maybes, Detective. Only truths hidden in data.”

Jiwon stood, her hands curling into fists. Seojin hadn’t just been a random victim. She had been a piece of something larger. A conspiracy that Taesung wanted buried deep.

Daehyun tilted his head, studying her. “You look like you’re chasing ghosts, Jiwon. Careful. Ghosts have a way of chasing back.”

That evening, Jiwon returned to her apartment, exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin. She dropped her coat on the sofa and poured herself a glass of water, staring at the rain streaking down her window.

The city outside looked different now—colder, more hostile. Every shadow seemed to hold eyes. Every echo of footsteps in the hall made her pulse quicken.

She opened her brother’s old case file again, thumbing through the photos, the reports, the unanswered questions.

Her phone buzzed. Another unknown number.

Heart pounding, she answered.

Static filled the line, then a whisper:

“The next one falls tomorrow.”

She froze. “Who is this?”

No answer. Just the faint sound of something in the background—a train horn.

The call ended.

Jiwon’s hand shook as she lowered the phone. A train. There were dozens of lines in Seoul. But only one station matched the timing of the last two victims’ disappearances.

Her eyes hardened. She grabbed her coat, determination burning through the fear.

If the killer wanted her to listen, she would.

But this time, she would be waiting.