SEOUL, 1997 — NIGHT — A STREET BATHED IN SCARLET
A girl screams in an alley.
She's already dead.
Her body's been drained, arranged in a spiral—limbs curved like a clock's hands, head tilted at exactly 3:33 a.m.. Her mouth is sealed with lace.
The camera zooms in:
In her hand is a photograph of Souta, torn from a case file.
Scrawled across it in red lipstick:
"Mercy breaks faster than hatred."
— K
INT. SEOUL POLICE HQ – WAR ROOM
News crews flood the entrance. The press has dubbed it:
"The Spiral Murders."
Ryouma stares at the board of victims. He hasn't slept in 3 days.
Souta flips through autopsy reports. Her eyes are deadened. Something inside her is dying—but no one can see it yet.
"This isn't her style," she mutters.
"You sure?"
She looks at him.
"She doesn't pose people like this. She kills. She doesn't arrange."
Ryouma stares at the lipstick.
"She's sending a message," he says.
Souta closes the file hard.
"No. Someone else is."
UNKNOWN ABANDONED APARTMENT — NIGHT
Kairi kneels in the center of a salt circle. Her wrists are slit shallow—ritualistically. Not suicidal. Ceremonial.
She chants something under her breath.
In front of her: dozens of mirrors.
In each, a reflection of her face—but none of them aligned. Different smirks. Different glares.
She whispers:
"I killed the mother.
I broke the aunt.
And now the lambs pretend they're wolves."
She breathes deeply.
"Let's feed them another storm."
She picks up a remote.
Presses play.
Surveillance footage plays on the CRT. Of Souta. Ryouma. The HQ. Their routines.
She's already watching them.
THE MASKED WOMAN'S POV
Darkness.
Breath.
Burning incense. A silk sheet lifted from a trunk.
Inside: dozens of sealed letters, addressed to one name:
冷懷蘭 (Lěng Huáilán)
Translates as: "Cold Orchid of Regret"
— A name crafted in mourning and fury.
MASKED WOMAN'S MONOLOGUE (VO)
As we see her suiting up:
Binding her wrists in crimson gauze
Loading a handcrafted pistol engraved with a Chinese poem
Burning old photographs of herself as a child
Practicing breathwork—meditative, controlled, trained
"They called me an experiment. They built me to be silence. But silence doesn't forget. And now I will speak through blood, through ash, through memory."
BACK TO RYOUMA & SOUTA — INT. CRIMINAL PSYCH ANALYSIS LAB — NIGHT
A heated argument brews:
Ryouma slams the desk.
"She's out there slaughtering girls who LOOK like you."
"I KNOW," Souta snaps, eyes flaring. "And I'm not running."
He exhales. The tension in the air could cut flesh.
"She's not the only one watching us."
They both look toward the open blinds.
And see the mask.
Hung outside the window. Staring in.
INT. SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT – MASKED WOMAN POV
Huáilán kneels before a small table.
She lifts a letter addressed to her from Katarina. One never sent.
"You were never meant to be a killer. But they made you one. If my niece and nephew ever find you… Don't teach them how to hate. Teach them how to end hate."
She crumples the letter.
Then burns it.
"Sorry. But I'm not a teacher. I'm just the bullet."
INT. SEOUL METRO – LATE NIGHT
A body is thrown into the path of an oncoming train.
Just before the impact, the train driver sees someone on the platform:
A woman in black hanfu, porcelain mask glowing under sodium lights.
Police arrive. She's gone.
But left behind:
A box.
Inside it:
A cassette with Katarina's voice
A bullet
A photo of Kairi
And a single, folded note:
"The memory eats itself. The mother prepares. You have 10 days."
FINAL SHOT - ACROSS THE CITY
Kairi, preparing an abandoned church as her new war room
Ryouma, finally drawing his gun for the first time in years
Souta, rereading a suicide letter she wrote at 13, then folding it again and locking it away
Huáilán, standing atop Seoul Tower, looking down over the city like a reaper in waiting
Then:
A sudden montage of blood. Screams. Sirens.
The city is about to break.