Tuesday.
Eleven days since I found the bag in the Han.
The investigation had a shape now—not that of a solved case, but of something alive. Something that breathed. That changed direction every time you thought you had it cornered.
Three victims identified.
A composite sketch.
Dr. Shin's psychological profile circulating internally since that morning.
A four-minute lapse in a café in Insadong.
And a man who had my personal number.
Lee Chanho arrived at eight with the report from the family interviews.
He sat across from my desk and began breaking it down in that flat voice he uses when he wants me to think for myself.
All three women had mentioned a man online.
All three used variations of the same idea:
Different
Attentive
Asks questions no one else asks
None of them had his name.
Because he never gave it.
None of them had photographs.
Because he never sent any.
But all three—in the words of Hwang Miyeon's mother—had felt seen.
—There's more —Lee said at the end—. Seo Yejin's sister called this morning.
I looked up.
—What did she remember?
—She asked if the man from the app had given his name. —Pause—. Seo Yejin said no. That when she insisted, he replied…
Lee checked his notes.
—"Names are the smallest way to describe someone."
I wrote the phrase down.
Repeated it under my breath.
—But he did use their names.
—Asymmetric control —Lee said—. He knows who they are. They don't know who he is.
—And he turns it into philosophy —I murmured.
Lee watched me with measured attention.
—Did Shin tell you anything useful?
—That this man builds his real identity in private. The visible life is the mask.
Lee nodded slowly.
Then he shifted the angle.
—Did you tell Park about the message?
I looked at him.
—Not yet.
Silence.
—Protocol says that when the killer contacts the detective… —Lee let the sentence hang.
—I know.
—And?
—Not yet.
Lee held my gaze for exactly three seconds.
—All right —he said at last.
But he didn't sound convinced.
Tuesday afternoon, Song Minwoo called me.
The detective who had classified Park Seolhwa's death as a suicide.
I hadn't contacted him yet.
That meant someone had talked.
Or he was listening.
—Detective Kang —he said, too controlled—. I hear you're reviewing the Park Seolhwa case.
—That's right.
Brief pause.
—Am I under investigation?
—We're gathering information from all detectives connected to the case.
Technical truth.
Nothing more.
We set the meeting for Wednesday.
I hung up.
Im Suah looked up from her desk.
—Do you think he's involved?
—I don't know.
And that was true.
—But closing a homicide as a suicide in forty-eight hours… —I let the sentence fall— is gross incompetence or something worse.
Im Suah hesitated.
That microsecond of hers I already knew how to read.
—Park Seolhwa had a blog —she said.
I turned.
—What kind of blog?
—Philosophy. Identity. The social mask. —She slid the tablet toward me—. The last entry is titled:
The man who asked me questions no one else asks.
I felt the internal shift.
I read in silence.
He asked me what was inside me that I had never shown anyone…
And the answer I gave him was true.
That's what scares me.
I closed my eyes for a second.
—No one reviewed this —I said.
—No one was looking —Im Suah replied.
Correct.
Until now.
Dr. Shin's response arrived at six.
I read it standing by the window.
Summary:
Park Seolhwa had maintained at least six conversations with the subject.
Material revealed by the victim:
Specific fears
Private shames
The gap between her public self and her real self
Method of the aggressor:
Reverse mirror technique
First offers a vague emotional confession.
Then waits for reciprocity.
Intimacy without evidence.
Elegant.
Dangerous.
At the end of the report, Shin had added a handwritten note:
The seventh entry mentions that the subject asked if she knew anyone in law enforcement.
I went still.
Twelve days before killing her…
…he asked that.
I went to the physical archives.
Park Seolhwa case.
Page three.
Line ten.
"Law enforcement environment ruled out."
Too fast.
Too clean.
Song Minwoo had decided not to look there.
At nine, the office was almost empty.
I kept staring at the board.
Three victims.
An incomplete face.
A man without a name.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Again.
How's the investigation going, Detective Kang?
My pulse slowed.
Three messages in eleven days.
A pattern forming.
I knew what the protocol said.
I knew what I was supposed to do.
I replied anyway.
Why me?
I waited.
One minute.
Two.
Four.
The answer came.
Because you're the only one who would understand.
My hand tightened.
And then, another message.
Don't you feel it too?
That difference?
The chair rolled back when I stood.
I went to the bathroom.
Cold water on my face.
In the mirror: the same man as always.
The same one who had spent twenty years building control.
I went back to the desk.
Passed the number to triangulation.
Drafted the report.
Cold.
Technical.
Correct.
I didn't mention that I had replied first.
I didn't mention what I felt reading the question.
And I didn't mention—because no report could contain it—
…that I wasn't completely sure what my answer was.
At eleven, I turned off the lights.
The elevator descended in silence.
Outside, the November fog covered Seoul.
And for the first time since this began…
…I wasn't sure if I was chasing the killer to stop him.
Or for something I still couldn't name.
The answer didn't come.
And that…
…was also an answer.