The ferry cut through the gray water, its engines groaning as Haeun Island disappeared behind them. Most of the employees dozed against their seats, exhaustion and leftover fear weighing heavier than the sea breeze. Kim Nam Shin sat quietly by the window, her reflection pale in the glass. The bruises on her neck, faint traces from the attack, were half-hidden by her scarf.
Woo Jin-ho sat across from her, his gaze fixed on her in silent concern. When their eyes met, she managed a weak smile.
"Thank you… for that night," she whispered.
His jaw tightened. "Don't thank me. You shouldn't have had to go through that at all."
Back in the city, the weight of reality settled like smog. Posters of the murdered victims still clung to telephone poles, rain-warped and peeling. The news never stopped repeating the same words: serial killer, no suspects, public fear rising. The sense of safety they'd tried to find on the island had dissolved the moment their feet touched the harbor.
At the office, whispers resumed. Some employees refused to work late. Others flinched at every sudden sound. Even laughter in the break room carried a nervous edge.
That night, Woo Jin-ho insisted on walking Nam Shin home. The streets glistened with rain, and the neon signs reflected in the puddles like fractured glass. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence between them felt heavier than words.
Finally, she said, "Jin-ho ssi… do you ever feel like the city itself is watching us? Like every corner hides eyes we can't see?"
He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "The city doesn't watch, Shin-ah. People do."
She shivered, hugging her coat tighter. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — too familiar, too close.
When they reached her building, Woo Jin-ho lingered at the entrance. "Lock your door. Double-check the windows. Call me if anything feels strange."
Nam Shin nodded, slipping inside. She leaned against the closed door, her heart racing. The silence of her apartment wrapped around her, but it felt different now — like the pause before something breaks.
On her desk, the small TV flickered with the late-night news. The anchor's voice was grave, steady.
"Breaking tonight: another body has been found near the riverside district. The victim, a middle-aged man, shows similar signs of strangulation as the previous murders…"
Nam Shin's breath caught. The words blurred, but one thought cut through clear: the killer was back in the city — and closer than ever.
She switched off the TV. In the silence that followed, she thought she heard something. A faint shift. A floorboard creaking where no one should be.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the light switch.