The Silent Witness

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.”

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