Perspective: Detective Jiwon An
I enter the precinct early.
No makeup.
No breakfast.
Just data.
The lab report is on my desk.
I read every line twice.
Human blood: Type O.
Non-human sample: Type G variant.
Protein markers indicate controlled aggression.
Enzyme suppression detected.
My chest tightens.
Controlled aggression.
Not instinct-driven.
Not accidental.
Not impulsive.
Only one category fits:
a regulated aberrant with full cognitive control.
I force myself to stay focused.
I open the recovered security footage again.
The silhouette moves with perfect rhythm.
No wasted motion.
Exact foot placement.
Stability under low light.
Exactly like the way he moves.
My breathing becomes uneven.
I pause and run a quick self-check:
pulse elevated
hands slightly tense
jaw locked
I calm myself before I continue.
I open a new file labeled: Pattern Analysis — Controlled Type-G.
I input data:
Case 1: torso laceration, controlled depth
Case 2: throat incision, precise angle
Case 3: no collateral damage
Case 4: no defensive wounds
Case 5: antiseptic smell at the scene
Case 6: disappearance of blood on the floor in a circular radius
Case 7: metallic collar fragment, obsolete government equipment
As I type, one image interrupts my focus:
His hands last night.
Clean.
Over-clean.
I shake the thought away.
Coincidences exist.
Bias exists.
Emotional contamination exists.
I must avoid misinterpretation.
Yet something returns to my mind:
He never forgets laundry.
He never misplaces shirts.
He never lies.
Last night, he lied.
I feel a cold sensation at the center of my chest.
"Detective."
Mireen enters with a tablet.
She hands it to me carefully.
"Another body. Ten kilometers from the warehouse."
My breath stops for half a second.
"What time?"
"Estimated death time: between 21:40 and 22:00."
I freeze.
He arrived home at 22:10.
My lungs tighten.
I cannot ignore this data point.
"Prepare the car," I say.
My voice is flat and controlled.
I stand.
My legs feel heavy.
This case is moving closer and closer to my personal life.
Too close to ignore.
Too close to deny.
I walk out of the office.
My hands shake again.
Perspective: The Husband
I sit on the kitchen chair.
The clock shows 06:41.
I do not blink for several seconds.
The suppressants wear down faster now.
My muscles feel heavier.
My senses are sharper.
My breath is louder.
I check my hands.
No tremor.
No stain.
I remain still.
She left the house twenty minutes earlier.
Her movements were fast.
Her posture was rigid.
She is in investigative mode.
This is dangerous.
I open the drawer under the sink.
It contains:
suppressants
antiseptic
a small sterile blade
a folded note from Aḷden
a contact card with no name
I take out the note.
I read it again.
"Emotional attachment increases risk exposure.
Monitor her behavior.
Remove threats when required."
I do not like this sentence.
I do not like the final instruction.
I place the note back.
My phone vibrates.
I check the message.
Aḷden:
"She is reviewing the footage. She will compare movement patterns."
My heart rate increases.
I inhale once.
Deep.
Slow.
Me:
"What do you want me to do?"
He replies instantly.
"Return to the old facility tonight. I will explain face-to-face."
My fingers tighten around the phone.
The old facility is where everything started.
Where the experiments happened.
Where the first training occurred.
Where the first kill occurred.
I close my eyes for one second.
Just one.
She cannot see that place.
She cannot know what happened there.
She cannot learn my actual classification.
I open my eyes again.
Decision sequence:
protect her
hide evidence
follow Aḷden
survive exposure
prevent confrontation
But one variable disrupts the sequence:
She suspects me.
Directly.
Not indirectly.
This is the first time.
I stand.
My pulse stabilizes to normal.
My breathing becomes regular.
This is now a controlled operation.
Perspective: Detective Jiwon An
The second crime scene is worse.
The body is inside a parking lot.
Positioned carefully.
Head tilted.
Arms placed symmetrically.
No defensive wounds.
Precise incisions.
Everything matches the previous case.
My stomach contracts.
My throat becomes dry.
I kneel and inspect the wound.
One clean horizontal cut.
Depth is identical to the warehouse case.
This killer repeats the same pattern.
Not because of compulsion.
But because of discipline.
A technician approaches.
"Detective, look at this."
He hands me a small plastic bag.
Inside it is a clear smudge on a metal surface.
I shine a light on it.
Fingerprint.
Partial.
But high quality.
I examine the ridge pattern.
My vision sharpens.
My pulse intensifies.
The fingerprint resembles someone familiar.
Too familiar.
My brain rejects the idea.
Then re-evaluates it.
Then refuses again.
But the pattern remains the same.
My chest hurts.
I stand up quickly.
"Run the fingerprint," I say.
My voice is tight.
"Against which database?" the technician asks.
I hesitate.
One name forces itself into my mind.
I do not want it there.
"Run it against all domestic civilian records," I say.
The technician nods.
Mireen steps beside me.
"You look tense."
"I am fine."
I am not fine.
Mireen lowers her voice.
"You're thinking of a specific person, aren't you?"
I do not answer.
I cannot answer.
If the fingerprint matches—
If the silhouette matches—
If the enzyme suppression markers match—
If the injury timing matches—
Then the truth is simple.
Direct.
Undeniable.
And I am not ready to face it.
Perspective: The Husband
I leave the house and lock the door.
I walk with measured steps.
No hurry.
No anxiety.
No visible tension.
I check the street.
No watchers.
No surveillance van.
No unusual car.
I begin moving toward the old facility.
My phone vibrates again.
It is Aḷden.
"She found the second body."
I type back:
"I know."
"She will match the fingerprint soon."
I freeze in place.
A short silence.
"Prepare yourself," Aḷden writes.
"She will confront you before the week ends."
My hand tightens around the phone.
I exhale slowly.
I whisper one sentence:
"I will not let her die."
And then I continue walking.
Step by step.
Toward the place where everything started.
Toward the truth I cannot avoid.