While Detective Kim stood in silence, drowning in thoughts that had begun to gnaw at his clarity—heavy, sticky thoughts that felt as though they did not belong to him—he tried to connect the threads. But every path led only to emptiness.
Elsewhere… far from prying eyes, a different world existed. A world no one entered.
The killer… that skilled manipulator… moved within it in absolute silence. A twisted place with pale walls and floors marked with stains that could never be erased. He called it: "The Safe House."
Although the smell of embalming chemicals filled the place—choking, heavy, enough to make any stranger vomit—he felt nothing there but comfort.
He walked forward with slow, silent, and terrifying steps. He wore the blue magpie mask, fixed to his face as though the colors were not painted on it, but born with him. He bent slightly, holding deformed pieces… yet they were not random. They had been carved precisely into letters. Perfect letters. Shaped with surgical scalpel precision, not a killer's hand.
He moved toward his wardrobe and opened it calmly. Inside were black blankets, arranged with obsessive order. They were not just blankets; they were an "archive," a storage of something missing. He chose one—not by chance, but by calculation.
He sat in front of a sewing machine. He began stitching the letters onto the black fabric. One stitch… then another. Slowly. Focused. Unsettlingly calm. He was not in a hurry. It was as if he was creating something precious.
When he finished, he stood up, holding the blanket. He walked toward another room—completely white, empty, and cold. In the center stood a single black chair. Light fell upon it as he approached, step by step, until he sat down.
He wrapped himself in the black blanket, now covered in letters… letters that were once part of a human body. He tilted his head slowly toward the ceiling. His eyes rolled inward until only the whites were visible. His body trembled. His breathing quickened.
That was ecstasy.
But it was not the ecstasy of drugs. It was the embodiment of his pain—a compulsive release tied to sadistic behavior, where inflicting harm grants a fleeting sense of control and relief. That is how it appeared from the outside. But inside him… the story was different.
Let us go deeper inside.
He does not understand emotions the way we do. He does not feel them naturally. This is often rooted in deep disturbances such as childhood attachment disorders or psychopathic traits. For him, emotions are not generated internally; they are extracted from others.
He was never fortunate. He was never given the chance to grow normally. Deep inside, he is still a child. A child searching for his mother. For safety. But his mother… was not safety. Whenever she scolded him, he would run to his bed, wrapped in his blanket. At first, it was only a way to hide. Then it became an emotional shield. And eventually, in his mind, it transformed into a "interface"—a tool to reflect negative emotions and convert them into positive ones. A way he imagined himself collecting emotions. Not literally… but cognitively. He connected the pain he inflicted on others with an internal sense of relief, creating an illusion that he was "possessing" those emotions.
Thus, his concept was born: "The Blanket of Happiness."
He preferred black because it was soulless. Unresisting. But the letters he stitched—taken from his latest victim—gave it life in his eyes. Gave it color. Meaning. Feeling.
He lifted his head further and began to mutter:
"Pride… envy… resentment… greed…"
His voice was low and trembling. Then: "hatred…"
Suddenly, his voice rose. "Ah… ah… ah…"
He smiled in ecstasy. "It's working…"
Then, in a softer tone: "humility… love… contentment… emotion…"
But those words were not pure. They were tainted with the smell of blood, screams, and suffering. Yet for him… it was enough.
On the other side… Himi was at Minsoo's house, gathering clothes to take to him at the hospital.
Her phone vibrated. She looked at it—and froze.
One name only: "Arthur Winston."
She quickly moved to a quiet corner, her heart pounding violently. She read the name again and again.
Is this real?
I've been messaging him for months…
Why did he suddenly reply now?
She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the message, then pulling back.
What if the content… is rejection?
What… will I do then?
But finally, her thumb moved and tapped.
She opened the message and began reading each line with difficulty, her eyes barely cooperating.
"I have been deeply affected by your messages and have been reading them over the past few months. I apologize for the delayed response. The condition you described—regarding your friend—caught my attention significantly. As a professor and researcher specializing in treatment of severe psychiatric cases…"
"There are points I must highlight."
"I believe the absence of a clear history of the patient may lead to significant deterioration in his condition."
"The state in which he was found—specifically being near a restaurant, eating from trash, covered in blood as you previously described, with eyes that appeared 'lifeless'—suggests a deeply disturbed childhood and severe internal conflict. I advise you to continue documenting every detail. When the full picture is complete, we can begin an appropriate treatment plan."
"At this stage, I agree to follow the case. Nothing is guaranteed, but there is always hope. Let us continue communicating."
The phone slowly lowered from her hand. Her breathing grew heavy.
Finally… someone… might understand.
Finally… will Minsoo live a normal life without nightmares and, most importantly, without hallucinations of the blue magpie?