The salt-laced wind of Busan was a familiar chill against Jae-Bum's face, but tonight, it carried a metallic tang that had nothing to do with the sea. It was the scent of blood and disinfectant.
Jae-Bum pulled his detective jacket tighter as he stepped through the crime scene tape. It was 03:00 AM, and the affluent residential tower overlooking Haeundae Beach was now lit by the sickly, rotating glow of police sirens.
"You're late, Detective Kim," snarled Captain Han, a man whose patience had long been eroded by late-night calls.
"Traffic on the Gwangan Bridge, Captain," Jae-Bum lied smoothly, his eyes already scanning the hallway.
He was tired. Bone tired. Just two hours ago, he had been miles away, performing his other job. He could still feel the phantom ache in his shoulder from the weight of his suppressed pistol, used just that night to deliver 'justice' to a crooked Port Authority official. He had done his part, now he was back to playing the role.
"This one's bad, Jae-Bum. Really bad," said Detective Lee, Jae-Bum's partner, his face pale under the harsh LED lights. "Victim is Choi Min-Jee, 50, CEO of Shinwa Tech. Single woman. Neighbors heard nothing."
Jae-Bum nodded, walking past the patrol officers. He didn't need the summary. He needed to see the stain.
The moment he entered the living room, the familiar coldness settled in his gut. It wasn't the gore that got to him; it was the precision. The room was immaculate, expensive furniture untouched. Only the centerpiece mattered: the victim, seated upright in her velvet armchair, completely drained of life.
The wound was surgical—a single, clean incision across the jugular. But the killer hadn't stopped there.
"He didn't take anything, did he?" Jae-Bum asked, his voice low and steady.
"No forced entry, no theft. Just... this," Detective Lee replied, gesturing weakly towards the victim's lap.
Jae-Bum approached, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep from trembling. The killer had left a signature. Tucked into the victim's hands was a single object: a cheap, white ceramic doll's head. Its eyes were wide and vacant, staring up at the ceiling.
Jae-Bum felt the air leave his lungs. No.
He immediately glanced away, pretending to study the window. "Look for prints. Check the vents, Detective Lee. This is a staged scene."
He knew it was staged, but not in the way the police thought. The killer was staging it for him.
The ceramic doll's head was a detail the press wouldn't get. A detail that only three people in the world knew about: Jae-Bum, his dead sister, and the man who had taken her life. When his sister, Ji-Min, was murdered seven years ago, the killer had left an identical doll's head beside her. The police had dismissed it as a random psychotic element. Jae-Bum knew better. It was a trophy.
He's back. And he's playing.
Jae-Bum's heart hammered against his ribs—not from fear, but from the brutal collision of his two worlds. The Vigilante needed to act, but the Detective needed to pretend.
He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning, panoramic view of the dark Busan coastline. He needed a moment to gather his fragmented sanity.
He leaned close to the glass, fogging it slightly with his breath. He focused on the lights shimmering on the surface of the black water, trying to ground himself. And then he saw it.
On a rooftop of an old, abandoned warehouse across the street—a rooftop so shadowed and far that no officer had bothered to check—stood a figure.
It was tall, slender, and utterly still. A black silhouette against the distant glow of the city's heart.
The figure wasn't just there; it was looking directly at this window, at him.
Adrenaline—pure, unadulterated predator instinct—flooded Jae-Bum's system, silencing the weariness of his double life. This wasn't just a coincidence. The Psikopat was watching his handiwork. He was watching Jae-Bum.
"I need to check the perimeter across the street," Jae-Bum announced, his voice tight. "Captain, I think we have an overlooked angle from that abandoned dockyard."
Before anyone could protest, Jae-Bum bolted, not waiting for permission. He moved with the desperate speed of a man trying to outrun a bullet.
He didn't take his police radio. He didn't take Detective Lee. This was his hunt. This was personal.
He burst out of the building, ignoring the shouts of the uniformed officers. He commandeered an unmarked police sedan, flipping the internal siren with a rough slap of his hand, and sped across the street toward the dilapidated warehouse district near the port.
The short drive was a blur of flashing blue light and surging rage. Seven years. Seven years I waited. You won't slip away again.
He slammed the brakes near the warehouse entrance, leaving the car door open. The warehouse was dark, smelling of dust, decay, and stagnant seawater. He scaled the rusted fire escape faster than he had ever done during his police training, fuelled by vengeance alone.
Finally, he reached the rooftop. The wind was fierce up here, whipping his hair across his face.
The spot where the figure stood was empty.
Jae-Bum scanned the rooftop, his chest heaving, his eyes straining in the deep shadows. Nothing. Only old water towers and cracked asphalt.
He walked to the edge, looking down at the surrounding alleys and docks. The figure was gone. They hadn't just run; they had vanished.
A slow, terrifying realization dawned on him. The Psikopat wasn't just testing the police; he was announcing his return specifically to Jae-Bum. He knew Jae-Bum was on the case. He knew Jae-Bum would be the one to look up.
Jae-Bum walked back to the exact spot where the silhouette had stood. He stared down, and there, etched neatly into the dust on the grimy concrete, was a single word.
"RUN."
Jae-Bum clenched his fists, knuckles white, the blood draining from his face. The warning wasn't aimed at the police force. It was aimed at The Vigilante.
The Psikopat knew who he was.