It's been two months. I dreamed of thrilling murder mysteries, of chasing shadows in the rain, solving codes no one could crack. But what am I really doing? Solving cases of missing fruit. A stolen bicycle. A neighbor's cat gone missing. Someone vandalized a mailbox with glitter—yes, glitter.
"What am I even doing, Mom?" I groaned into the phone, the edge of a tear in my voice.
"My dream—it's flying further and further away," I muttered, staring blankly at the report form.
Senior Detective Han Dae-sik was the wall between me and the real cases. An unshakable, stone-faced wall.
Meanwhile, Jung Min-ho—cheeks puffed with lunch—told me, "At least you're getting paid while solving cat dramas."
He wasn't wrong. But enough was enough.
I slammed my pen down. "I'm going to confront Senior Han."
"Seriously?" Min-ho blinked.
"It's not like he's going to kill me," I said.
I really shouldn't have said that.
Because the very next morning, Senior Han assigned me to a murder case.I didn't get the murder case because I was ready. I got it because I opened my big mouth.
The next morning, Senior Han threw a folder on my desk with a thud.
"Your case. Don't die."
He walked off like it was just another Tuesday.
The file read: Unidentified Male – Found Dead in Bluebell Street, Apartment 3B, Gangan Rise Complex.
Bluebell Street didn't have bluebells. Just trash, busted lights, and silence too heavy for daylight. The building was crumbling—water stains on the walls, rust on the railings. No cameras. No watchman.
The apartment door was half-open, like it had been waiting for someone. Inside, it reeked of blood and old curry.
The man lay sprawled on the floor, throat slashed clean—too clean.
A sharp blade. Possibly a hunting knife. Cold. Precise.
Just like my mother always warned in her made-up bedtime murder stories. I shouldn't have remembered them now.
The forensics team arrived with their kits—powder, UV lights, sealed bags. One found a blood-stained cigarette under the window. Another picked up faint bootprints near the body. No signs of forced entry.
Meanwhile, I did my first real interrogation with the neighbors.
Apartment 3C: An old woman who claimed she "saw a man with a limp" leave around 2 a.m.
Apartment 2A: A teen girl said she heard nothing but was watching crime shows all night—oh, the irony.
Apartment 1B: A drunk guy who thought the police had come for him again.
It all felt strange. Too quiet. Too quick.
Then I found it—tucked in the victim's inner jacket pocket: a business card with no name, only a black snake tattoo logo and a number written in code.
That's when I knew. This wasn't just a murder.
This was the beginning of something else.No fingerprints. No witnesses. Nothing.
A clean, cold murder — with just a single clue left behind: a black playing card.
Was it left intentionally?
Was it his signature?
Could he be... the same person who killed my mother in my past life?
Or is this just a cruel coincidence?
Too many questions. Zero answers.
Luckily, the victim's phone survived.
His last incoming call was traced to a public call booth — PSU Street, Block 17.
It was already dusk when we reached the location, the street buzzing with tired vendors and flickering neon lights.
We asked around:
"Did anyone see a man using this PCO yesterday evening between 5 to 6 PM?"
Most shook their heads. Some didn't even look at us. The usual silence.
Then we checked the CCTV.
There he was — a man cloaked in black from head to toe, wearing gloves and a mask, talking on the public phone.
No face. No fingerprints. Just shadowsI came back to my desk, needing to organize my thoughts.
The black card sat there, almost mocking me in its silence.
I placed it carefully under the desk lamp, its shadow stretching like some silent omen.
Just then, Senior Han walked in, probably to check on the update.
I showed him the card.
His eyes widened.
His jaw twitched.
He stared like he'd just seen his ex at a wedding — shocked, confused, and slightly terrified.
Then he said the most ridiculous thing:
> "Leave this case. I'll handle it from here."
Excuse me, what?
You assigned me this case. I didn't steal it from your lunchbox.
And now that I'm doing it seriously, you're telling me, "It's too early for you to know."
Bro, what is this — a Marvel origin story?
I, meanwhile, did what any confused rookie detective would do —
I called my dad.
He came over in his usual half-suspicious, half-chill mode. I handed him the card.
He stared at it. Then looked at me.
> "If your boss is freaking out like that, this isn't a regular case. It's probably connected to some organization — political or maybe underworld."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Underworld?"
He nodded.
> "Yeah, that card doesn't look like something from Archies. It's a symbol. And symbols in these circles… mean power, threat, or signature."
Great.
So either I've stepped into some mafia mess…
Or I'm just starring in an unpaid, unscripted crime thriller.
I thought, maybe this is my chance—a chance to prove my worth, to join the organization my mom once belonged to... or maybe even to uncover the truth behind her killer.
The next morning, I marched into the office, fueled with determination. I found Senior Han sipping his tea like the world wasn't falling apart.
"I want back on the case," I said bluntly.
He raised an eyebrow without looking up. "This isn't a playground, rookie. You might lose everything if you get involved."
"I know," I said. "That's exactly why I'm a detective."
He sighed like a tired parent. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you." He threw me the coldest 'lucky-you' position on the team—basically one step above a coffee fetcher.
Yeah, what did I expect from a tyrant with a badge? A warm welcome?
Once I joined the team, I got the full intel. That mysterious black card? It belonged to an underworld organization called Xcrast—notorious for drug trade and high-level smuggling operations. The kind of people who don't leave trails… unless they want you to follow.
We released posters of the dead man's face, hoping someone might recognize him.
And someone did.
Later that afternoon, a frail-looking man walked into the precinct. "That's my brother," he said quietly. "His name is writer choi. He was a journalist."
A journalist?