For a while, he just kept staring at the chain around her wrists.
The streak of dried blood on her face still hadn't faded.
For someone accused of murder, she was too quiet.
Too calm.
Too steady.
I was starting to lose hope of getting her to talk.
As a police officer, all I had to do was close the case and throw it into the corner of hell.
But… I don't know why, something about her made me think there was a story buried under that cold face and sealed mouth—
a story begging to be heard.
The only thing we didn't have… was time.
I decided to trust my instinct.
Maybe I just didn't want to repeat an old mistake.
Or maybe it was nothing but a misleading gut feeling… a wrong comparison at the wrong time.
I sat down, fingers twisting together on the metal table.
I knew the monitors were watching us, but I didn't want to lower my guard.
"Miss Sora, I'm asking you to tell the truth.
Is it true that you killed a boy named Suho?
And should I mention… two more murders from ten years ago are also registered under your name."
Silence.
Empty, suffocating silence.
"Miss Sora…"
I was losing patience.
I rose from my chair and walked toward the exit door glued to the eastern wall of that small room—
but suddenly, a loud laugh echoed between the metal bars, bouncing off every corner.
She looked straight at me, that smile carved on her lips, and her mouth slowly parted as if ready to spill a story.
"You're looking for the truth… then I'll tell you."
Her voice made the whole atmosphere turn heavy.
I stepped forward—
Right then, my radio crackled to life.
What I heard froze my breath in my throat.
They were telling me the girl I thought had killed only two people…
was actually a serial killer.
Thirty victims.
------
" So you're the one who killed him…
For a first-time murderer, you're very calm.
Still not going to talk?"
A few minutes earlier the room had been swallowed by shadows, but now his voice dragged it back into the light.
The repetitive, meaningless questions echoed in my ears, and a hollow feeling spread through me like moss.
The handcuffs had become one with my skin and blood.
I was tired—
so tired.
Maybe I just wanted it all to end…
or maybe I wished I could wake up from this endless nightmare.
Then suddenly, my laughter broke out.
It filled the cold, empty room.
For the first time, while laughing, I felt something strange—
heavy, unfamiliar, almost painful.
"If you want the truth… then I'll tell you."
The words slipped out.
My laughter died, but the smirk stayed in place.
Memories flickered before my eyes like fragments of an old, blurry film.
Where did it start?
Maybe that day…
when the sound of rain filled the whole house, and my back slammed against the floor.
Cold hands were around my neck—
colder than the tiles beneath me.
Everything was fading:
sound, light, even breath.
Maybe it really was time to sleep.
But then the hands pulled away.
And that same routine apology came, like every day:
"I'm sorry."
Those terrified eyes.
The way she dropped me.
I hit the floor hard and everything went dark.
I only heard my father screaming,
yelling as he struck my mother—her face turning purple.
Unreal.
Maybe just a nightmare.
Then he came for me.
He grabbed my hair, dragged me, and threw me into the room.
My back crashed against the floor.
ed)
The cold floor had fused with my back,
as if the ice had slipped beneath my skin and reached the bone.
The bruises scattered across my body began to sting—
like wounds that had suddenly remembered they were alive.
My eyes were too dry to cry anymore.
I wish I could die.
The thought whispered itself into my mind.
A soft voice brushed against my ear.
I turned sharply,
but no one was there.
The same empty room,
the same suffocating air—
but none of it mattered anymore.
A cold gust pushed the window open,
letting winter spill inside.
The room froze over,
though I had already been cold for a long time.
My legs didn't want to move,
yet they pulled me toward the window.
I thought I had grown used to the cold,
but each step across the floor proved I was wrong.
My palms touched the glass—
not quite a mirror,
but clear enough to show my reflection.
And I saw her.
The six-year-old girl
with dirt clinging to her yellow hair
and blue eyes dry and hollow.
My knees gave out.
I slid to the floor and leaned against the wall beneath the window,
closing my eyes so tightly
as if I never wanted to open them again.
Then—
a sound behind the door.
His voice.
Strangely gentle.
Suspiciously soft.
The door opened slowly.
He rushed toward me
and grabbed my shoulders—
not to hurt me,
but to steady me.
For the first time,
he treated me like a father treats a daughter.
I knew it was impossible,
knew it was wrong,
but I allowed the child inside me
one fragile thought:
Maybe… maybe he cares.
He kissed my forehead and whispered,
"My daughter."
Those simple words
shattered something inside me.
Tears slipped down my face
before I even realized it.
He took my hand and led me to his room—
warm, clean, forbidden.
A large bed, a glowing fireplace,
a wide window,
air that didn't smell of smoke.
Strange.
Too strange.
He placed my head on the bed and said,
"Good night, my daughter."
Just those words
drained the last of my strength.
With wet eyes,
I drifted into sleep…
unaware of the nightmare waiting to tear the room apart.
morning arrived
and dawn spilled across the room
telling me i had slept for far too long
suddenly____
A violent slam shattered the door—
as if kicked off its hinges.
I froze.
Is that… Father?
I wanted to look,
but I couldn't lift the blanket from my face.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Footsteps approached—
slow, heavy, terrifying.
Each one beating against my chest.
Because I knew—
the person coming toward me
was not my father.
In a single swift motion,
the blanket was ripped away,
its brief moment in the air loud in my ears.
I couldn't open my eyes.
His shadow fell over me, dark and suffocating.
He leaned in—
just close enough
to see my face.