"A city forgotten by mercy will always remember its monsters."
SEOUL, 1997 — NIGHT
Heavy rain. Blinking CRT billboards.
A cassette tape rolls inside an old stereo deck. Crackling guitar fades in.
A slowed down Korean cover of The Cure's "Lullaby."
We see Ryouma, now 25, standing on the rooftop of a motel crime scene. The skyline behind him is dirty and red with thunderclouds. He's dressed in a brown coat, stained from years of fieldwork.
He lights a cigarette. He doesn't smoke—it's symbolic. It's her.
Beneath him: a brutalized body. Tied with silk. A needle through each wrist.
Detective Ji-Hoon, his junior partner, mutters behind him:
"Third victim this month. No signs of forced entry. Whoever did this knew the door code."
Ryouma stares.
But he's not looking at the body.
He's looking at the postcard pinned to the wall above the corpse.
An old photo of Kamikawa.
In red ink:
"Wolves remember."
CUT TO: INT. SEOUL METROPOLITAN POLICE HQ – CRIMINAL ANALYSIS DIVISION
Souta Saigeru, 24.
Slick black slacks, blouse tucked in, no smile.
She works in a soundproof glass room covered in crime scene photos, behavioral models, trauma impact grids.
But tonight—she's frozen.
She's looking at a photo from the motel.
And the note.
"Kamikawa."
Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile.
More like a flinch of fate.
FLASHBACK: (VO FROM SOUTA)
"My mother taught me how to disappear.
My aunt taught me how to protect.
But no one taught me how to live."
We see her curled up in a library corner at 17, reading criminal casebooks while other kids flirt outside.
Then we cut to her now—clean, clinical, and cold.
But the memory still lingers.
MEANWHILE – INT. ABANDONED TRAIN STATION – LATE NIGHT
A voice plays from an old cassette recorder:
"Blood is not proof of loyalty.
But sometimes, it's enough."
Kairi stands in near darkness, face unseen.
She walks past chained lockers. Dust dances in flashlight beams.
Behind her, a table. Laid out like a ritual.
Photos of Ryouma. Souta. Kamikawa. Katarina's obituary, laminated and underlined.
Someone else sits in the shadows across from her—barely seen.
"You're not going after them yet?" the figure asks.
Kairi's voice is older now.
Tired. Worn. But still carved from blade.
"No. I'm just reminding them I'm real."
She lights a match.
Sets a photograph on fire.
It's a child's drawing:
Three stick figures.
One crossed out.
BACK IN SEOUL – INT. POLICE HQ – EVIDENCE ROOM – EARLY MORNING
Ryouma opens a box labeled:
CASE FILE: 1985–89 // CLOSED // DO NOT INVESTIGATE
He pulls out:
Katarina's old badge
A burnt-out bullet casing
A cassette labeled: "For them."
He slips on headphones.
The voice is Katarina's.
"If you're hearing this, I'm gone. You'll want to kill her. I know. But don't become what she is. Become what I hoped you'd be. Make the badge mean something."
Ryouma closes his eyes.
Just once.
Then slides the tape back.
He walks out.
POV — MASKED WOMAN
We finally see the world from her eyes.
Distorted. Dim.
Colors blur at the edges like film melting in heat.
She stands atop a water tower. Watching the city like a god.
We hear her internal monologue, soft and ancient:
"There is no good. No evil. Only memory and instinct. The boy chose structure. The girl chose distance.But the mother… the mother was the truth they denied."
She turns.
Fades.
Ryouma sits in a diner, rain streaking the window behind him. Souta slides into the booth across from him.
"You look like shit," she says.
"Feel worse."
She passes him a folder.
"Four victims. All posed. All linked. Guess where the last postcard was mailed from?"
Ryouma doesn't need to ask.
"Back to Kamikawa," he mutters.
Souta's voice is low.
"She's not just reminding us. She's inviting us."
A beat.
He closes the file.
"Then we RSVP."