Chapter Text
January 6th; 07:15 a.m.; City Park
San had not expected to be woken up this early, but apparently the world had other plans. Or at least, the chief did. The city was still heavy with the fog of morning, streets quiet except for the distant hum of traffic slowly coming alive, but here—here in the shadowed expanse of City Park—chaos was already waiting.
He stood at the edge of the jogging path, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, staring down at the woman sprawled unnaturally on the damp grass. Her body was pale, disturbingly still, and yet the sight of her, twisted as it was by death, drew in every ounce of his attention. A young woman, still so young, with life—real life—snatched from her in the span of a few brutal minutes.
San’s gaze flicked to the ID that had been recovered from the scene: Kim Suhyeon. Thirty-two years old. A number, a name. Soon to be forgotten by all but those who had known her. And yet, it didn’t feel like just a number. He could feel it already—this one would linger in his mind longer than most.
Eight deep, glistening stab wounds across her chest. Still wet with fresh blood. A watch gone, leaving only a faint line of untanned skin on her wrist. Nothing else missing.
Kang Yeosang, the station’s best medical examiner, had been at the scene before San arrived. He crouched beside the body, snapping notes and murmuring observations that only a forensic professional would even register.
“From what I see so far the time of death seems to be between 4:30 and 5:30 a.m.,” Yeosang said without looking up, as if stating the obvious.
He finally lifted his eyes to meet San’s and shrugged, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Nothing else taken, except the watch, no signs of a struggle beyond a blow to the head and the stabbing. It’s… surgical.”
Surgical. San’s hand twitched toward his coat pocket, though he didn’t reach for anything. A gut instinct had been growing in him since the moment he stepped out of his car: this wasn’t random. This wasn’t just a mugging gone wrong or some petty dispute that escalated too far. It was deliberate. Focused. Personal, in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
He crouched slightly, scanning the body from above. The early morning light caught the edges of the wounds, glinting faintly on the fresh blood. A small, almost invisible tremor in the air around him. His mind worked over the details like a machine.
Eight wounds. Chest. Watch missing. Routine likely disrupted or deliberately targeted. The thought made his stomach tighten: someone could have been watching her, knowing her habits, her routine.
San shook his head slightly. He hated getting involved in a case before the evidence truly laid itself out in front of him, but something about this scene—the stillness, the horror, the meticulousness of the killer—made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t ignore. He had been doing this long enough to trust that gut, that whisper of instinct that never lied.
The wind shifted and brought the faint, metallic scent of blood to his nose. He wrinkled it. He wasn’t squeamish. Not anymore. He had seen plenty—more than he could count. And yet, the proximity of this, the freshness of it… it made the scene somehow sharper. More real.
“Yeosang,” he said, finally breaking the silence, his tone flat, almost casual, but threaded with the sharp edge of sarcasm. “…we just stand around staring at the corpse and nod knowingly while the killer laughs somewhere in the distance?”
Yeosang’s smirk widened. “You should always be this cheerful in the morning.”
San let a dry laugh escape. “Morning? I call this tragic o’clock. Makes coffee look optional.”
He pushed himself upright and glanced around the park. Jogging path, quiet. Early birds already avoiding the area, leaving only the damp echo of his thoughts bouncing off the trees. He could almost picture the scene if it had been daytime, full of life and motion. Now it was eerily still, and yet… San’s gut told him the killer hadn’t just acted randomly. They had chosen the place, the time, even the victim. Carefully. Painstakingly.
San walked a slow circle around the body, eyes trained on every small detail: the angle of the knife wounds, the position of the arms, the slight indentation in the grass near her feet where she had fallen. A small patch of disturbed earth near the path caught his eye. A struggle? No, nothing major. But enough for a trained eye to note.
Eight wounds. The victim’s routine. A missing watch. The cleanliness of it. His fingers twitched again. The killer wanted something. Or maybe wanted to make a statement.
San stood abruptly, frustrated. The chief had insisted he take this case, and he had expected… well, something easier. A theft gone wrong, a mugging, maybe a domestic dispute. Not this. Not a young woman, stabbed multiple times in a public place in the dark hours of the morning, left so deliberately for someone to find.
Yeosang approached him, flipping his gloves as if the conversation was beneath him. “What do you think?”
San let out a long, measured sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly as if that could make the scene less real. “I think,” he said slowly, deliberately, letting the words hang in the cold morning air, “that whoever did this is going to cause me more headaches than I thought possible. And probably some gray hairs I’m not ready for yet.”
Yeosang snorted. “Charming as always.”
San gave a tight, sarcastic smile. “I try. Really, I do.”
He crouched one more time, glancing at the victim. Her eyes, empty, stared past him as if mocking him in their permanence. He swallowed hard. A pang of guilt. A pang of frustration. A pang of sheer determination.
As he rose, he glanced at the jogger’s path again, imagining her running earlier that morning. Routine. Predictable. And suddenly the plan started forming in his mind, piece by piece. Clues, evidence, timing, habits.
The sun crept a little higher, brushing light over the park, but San hardly noticed. He was already running through the case in his mind, notes forming, questions stacking like dominoes ready to fall. And somewhere deep down, a voice whispered, sharp and unrelenting: This one is going to be different.
XxxxX
San always hated this part the most. Driving to the victim’s family and being the bearer of catastrophic news was, by far, the aspect of his job he’d never fully accepted.
He could handle crime scenes, autopsies, interrogations, and stakeouts without blinking—but sitting in a quiet living room, coffee table between him and a grieving relative, and watching their world shatter because of a single name on a police report? That had never gotten any easier.
Today was no different. The drive to Kim Suhyeon’s shared apartment with her sister had been quiet, punctuated only by the low hum of his car engine and the occasional groan of the city waking up around him.
He parked and stepped out, adjusting the lapels of his coat. A detective’s coat never really fit right over a coffee-stained sweater and half-collapsed suitcase of nerves, but it didn’t matter. None of it did.
The sister, the only living relative, had been waiting quietly on the couch. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry, as if she had been preparing herself for news she desperately didn’t want.
San took a breath, forcing his voice into the calm, neutral tone that professionals used to soothe chaos. It was a mask. He wasn’t sure if it worked for anyone else, but for him, it was necessary.
“I’m Detective Choi San,” he began, offering the briefest nod. “I’m very sorry, but I have some difficult news regarding your sister, Kim Suhyeon.”
The air in the room thickened. Her body stiffened, hands gripping the arms of the chair like she might disappear if she held tightly enough. San let the words sink in. He gave her a moment—long enough for the reality to begin to press into her chest, but not so long that it became unbearable.
“Is… is she dead?” she whispered, voice cracking.
“Yes,” San said simply. No euphemisms. No unnecessary cushioning. Sometimes clarity was the only kindness a detective could offer. “I’m so sorry. Your sister was found earlier this morning, in the City Park.”
The initial scream didn’t come immediately, just a hollow, trembling intake of breath, followed by tears. San watched, sympathetic but controlled. His years in the force had taught him that grief was unpredictable. Some cried; some went numb. Some lashed out. Today, she cried.
Once she had calmed enough to speak in broken sentences, San started asking the questions that mattered. Routine questions, the ones that might lead somewhere.
He asked about relationships, enemies, anyone she knew who might hold grudges. And then, finally, he reached the detail that mattered most: the ex-husband.
Suhyeon had been married for four years, the sister explained, to a man who had not taken the end of the marriage well. Abusive, controlling. She had filed for divorce about a year ago.
Since then, life had improved for her, but the ex-husband refused to accept the separation. He had attempted to contact her multiple times. Suhyeon had even obtained a restraining order against him.
Everything had been going well, but then since a few weeks ago, she had been nervous, confiding to her sister that she felt watched, like someone was following her. But beyond that, she hadn’t said much. And now… it was too late.
San pressed gently. “Do you know if she told anyone about the person following her? Any other signs, threats, anything at all?”
The sister shook her head. “No. She… she didn’t want to worry anyone. She was private. Even with me, she only hinted at it.”
San let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. Frustration gnawed at the edges of his patience. Everything had been lining up so neatly—routine, predictable habits, patterns—and now he hit this wall of ambiguity. No concrete leads, no witnesses. Just a woman who had sensed danger and yet couldn’t name it.
Then, something in the sister’s eyes sparked. A small, fleeting light. She hesitated, then spoke, her voice quieter now, almost hopeful. “Since her divorce… she’s been seeing someone. A psychiatrist. Every week. Maybe he… he would know more.”
San’s ears pricked up. A psychiatrist could know the intricacies of her life, her fears, her anxieties—details she might never have shared with family or friends. This could be the lead he needed.
The sister got up, shuffling to a hallway cupboard with a mutter of self-reminder under her breath. San watched, hands crossed over his coat, tapping a foot lightly.
Even here, even now, he found himself noting the small patterns—the hesitation before she moved, the way she opened drawers, the careful way she rifled through papers. He made a mental note: observe everything, even when it seems trivial.
After a few minutes, she returned, holding a small business card in her hand. She extended it to him with a quiet smile that carried both relief and sorrow. San took it carefully, turning it over in his gloved fingers.
Haesim Psyche Center HPC
Jung Wooyoung, MD, PhD
Psychiatrist | Trauma Recovery Specialist
Co-Founder & Clinical Director
San examined the card, noting the professional tone, the title, the credentials. A clinical director with expertise in trauma recovery. Perfect. Maybe too perfect. His mind was already ticking: appointments, records, what she might have confided, and whether this man could help him understand what led to her death.
“Thank you,” he said, placing the card carefully into his coat pocket. He gave the sister a nod, brief but firm. “I’ll follow up with him.”