The streetlights cast a cold, sickly amber glow on Detective Park, who stood isolated on the pavement outside the precinct. The night was deep and starless. With the practiced ritual of a man perpetually burdened, he struck a match and brought the cigarette to life, inhaling the acrid smoke deeply before exhaling a measured cloud into the chilling air.
His focus was singular. He held a plastic-sheathed student ID card up to the faint light. It was the face of the deceased young man. Park read the sparse data aloud, his voice low and private: "Name: Joon Ho. Date of Birth: March 4, 1992. Status: Fourth-year student."
He glanced at his wristwatch. The digital display read 2:59.
The time clicked forward. 3:00.
Jonas Lockwood was miles away, lying in the fetal position in his own bed, when the shift occurred. He awoke with a sharp, internal scream, instantly consumed by a crippling, invisible pain. It was not a headache, but a deep, systemic agony that seized his muscles and locked his joints, rendering coordinated movement impossible.
He writhed, attempting to sit up, but his limbs were useless. His body shaking violently, Jonas managed to drag himself from the bed and began the agonizing journey toward the bathroom. He moved with the desperate, lurching gait of a wounded animal, using the wall for vital support. Objects in his path became collateral damage: a vase of dried flowers tumbled, a framed photo shattered, and the light bulb overhead fell from its socket, plunging the room into shadow and scattering shards of glass across the floor.
Finally, he reached the threshold of the bathroom. Gasping, he reached above the doorframe, his shaking fingers searching the space where the wall met the ceiling. With painstaking effort, he located a loose ceiling tile and slid it aside. His hand vanished into the darkness of the hidden cavity, searching, grasping, until his fingertips brushed against a very small, transparent bag.
He withdrew the bag, tearing it open. He quickly ingested a minute amount of the crystalline substance inside.
The relief was instantaneous, a sudden, warm flood washing over the crippling pain. With his body now slack and temporarily placated, Jonas slumped against the cold tile floor, resting his head against the door.
FLASHBACK
A vivid, crucial memory superimposed itself over the dim bathroom scene.
It was revealed now, with chilling clarity: the illicit substance found in Joon Ho's apartment was not meant for his own consumption.
Joon Ho was not a simple addict who died in a drug-induced frenzy. He was, in fact, the supplier—the courier responsible for delivering the small, transparent bags of narcotics, to Professor Lockwood.