The Cyber Crime HQ lab smelled of disinfectant and ozone, sharp and biting. Stainless steel counters gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, reflecting trays filled with vials, samples, and fragments of evidence like tiny islands of secrets. Every corner hummed with quiet danger.
Kang Eun-ji stepped inside first, arms loaded with the journalist's laptop, ID card, and the recovered camera. Her boots clicked softly against the polished floor—precise, deliberate. Behind her, Mi-ran and Eun-chae followed, scanning the lab with eyes that missed nothing, every shadow, every glint of metal cataloged instantly.
At the center, Dr. Han Seo-Yeon, the head of forensics, glanced up from her workstation, her gaze sharp beneath thin-rimmed glasses.
"These... are not red paint," she said, her voice calm but loaded with gravity.
Eun-ji placed her items carefully on a tray, gloves brushing the edges. She picked up a tiny flake of residue and held it to the light.
"Then... what is it?" Her voice was soft, controlled—but threaded with tension.
"Blood," Dr. Han said, her eyes unflinching. "Human blood. The entire museum sweep... every painting sampled. Lab confirms: the red 'paintings' are blood. RH-null, AB negative, and B negative."
Mi-ran's breath hitched. "The rarest blood types... almost impossible to find."
Eun-ji's jaw tightened. She tapped her laptop. "With cyber's help, we traced it to five victims this week alone. Cross-checked. Confirmed. Serial murders."
Silence swallowed the lab. Heavy, suffocating, pressing into their chests.
"These... are murders," Eun-ji said, voice low and precise. "Only the museum chairman can tell us who's behind it."
A monitor flickered. A NEWS ALERT flashed.
REPORTER (V.O.)
Breaking news: Yoo Byung-chul, chairman of Cheonghwa Museum, has died tonight around 8:30 PM.
Eun-ji's eyes narrowed, sharp as knives. "How... how did this happen?"
"He got bail," Mi-ran said, tight-lipped. "Not enough evidence... until now."
Officer Han rushed in, tablet in hand, urgency crackling from his every movement. "You need to see this, Ma'am."
The monitors flickered. A VIDEO played. The journalist's voice cut through the sterile hum of the lab.
JOURNALIST (VIDEO)
The world believes cancer has no permanent cure... but it does.
The medical mafia hides it. If revealed, everyone could access it.
Demand is rising globally. Patients from four to sixty—no one is spared.
The cure requires stem cells from women with rare blood types—RH-null, B negative, AB negative.
Behind it... CEO Seo Jin, future head of Synapse Biosystems.
He silences anyone who reveals the truth.
This is humanity dying... for profit.
...and now, you know why.
The video ended. Silence returned, thick and cold.
Eun-ji's fingers tightened around the edge of the evidence tray. "So the murders... the red 'paint'... it's a harvest."
Officer Jung's voice was quiet, deliberate. "Animal-tested compound. Lethal to humans. Only the elite receive it."
Mi-ran exhaled slowly. "Fifty-seven victims in six months. All part of this... experiment."
Eun-chae's fists clenched at her sides. "Greed and control... disguised as a cure."
The lab seemed smaller suddenly, oppressive. Shadows crept into corners as fluorescent lights glared, unrelenting.
Later, in the dim, empty parking lot, Eun-chae stepped out of the building, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. The yellow glow of streetlights flickered over her, distant city sounds muted in the night.
She clicked her car key. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing.
"Seriously...?" she muttered, frustration threading her voice.
From behind came a familiar tone. "Car trouble?"
She turned. Officer Jung approached, slightly out of breath, phone in hand. The night seemed to hold its breath.
"I forgot this upstairs," he said, holding a small device. Then, quieter, "Car trouble?"
"Yeah," Eun-chae said, skeptical.
A beat.
"I'll drop you," Jung said, calm, measured.
"You? You're sure about that?" she asked, voice wary.
He didn't answer with words—just a nod, confident, certain. He turned toward his car.
Eun-chae muttered under her breath, more to herself than him. "What was that...?"
And she followed, each step deliberate, heels clicking softly against asphalt, the night alive with unseen threats and possibilities.
They weren't done. Not by a long shot.