Three days later, Im Suah walked into my office with a folder and an expression I didn't like.
It wasn't the face of someone bringing bad news.
It was the face of someone bringing news that changes the rules of the game.
—I found another one —she said.
I let her speak without interrupting, though at some point I stood up and went to close the door.
Park Seolhwa. Forty-two years old. University professor at Yonsei. Found in the Han on September 14 — eight weeks before Seo Yejin.
The case had been classified as suicide.
Nothing unusual about that.
The Han bridges carry more stories than the city admits out loud, and Mapo in particular has enough reputation to justify quick decisions.
But Im Suah had requested the full forensic report.
I set it on my desk and read it twice.
Hands bound.
Not with tape this time — the report mentioned textile material, possibly a scarf.
Manual strangulation.
And on the left shoulder, partially erased by the water but still legible in the enlarged photographs:
나는 여기 있다.
The same handwriting.
The same orderly stroke.
—The detective who handled the case closed it as suicide in forty-eight hours —Im Suah said. Her tone was neutral, but too clean—. The message was logged as pre-existing ink. Possible partial tattoo… or prior sexual activity.
I looked at her.
—Who handled the case?
She hesitated for barely a second.
—Detective Song Minwoo. Third shift. —Brief pause—. He was promoted in October.
I stored the name where I keep things I don't yet know what I'll need for.
—Anything else? —I asked.
—I'm looking. —She folded her hands over the folder—. Sunbae… if there are two…
—There are more —I said.
It wasn't intuition.
It was arithmetic.
—Someone who takes this level of care with presentation doesn't stop at two. He's building something.
Im Suah's brow tightened slightly.
—What kind of thing does a killer build?
I looked at the window. Outside, Seoul shone with that metallic gray November light that turns the city into a hand-colored black-and-white photograph.
—An audience —I said.
The number Seo Yejin had left in the sink belonged to her sister.
Park Jiyeon. Thirty-four years old. Nurse. Mapo-gu.
I interviewed her Thursday in a small room that smelled like machine coffee and institutional sadness.
She arrived with dry eyes.
She was past the crying stage.
Now she was in the understanding stage.
—My sister called me on Tuesday —she said—. Two days before… —She stopped—. She said she had met someone. On an app.
—Did she give you a name?
—No. She said he was mysterious. Intelligent. —Pause—. That he made her feel seen.
Seen.
I wrote the word down.
—Did anything about him worry her?
Park Jiyeon looked at the table.
—Sometimes he wrote things that made her nervous. Quotes. Phrases. —She swallowed—. About human nature. About what people hide.
She looked up.
—She told me: unni, this man knows too much about how people work inside… like he's been watching them his whole life.
That sentence stuck somewhere uncomfortable in me.
—Did she save the conversations? —I asked.
—No. —She shook her head slowly—. She said he never wrote anything that could be used against him. That everything sounded normal… if you read it without context.
…
That wasn't luck.
That was design.
When I stepped into the hallway, I leaned for a moment against the cold wall.
Everything sounded normal without context.
Someone who understands language.
Someone who knows exactly what to leave… and what not to.
My phone vibrated.
Im Suah.
—Sunbae —she said—. I found a third one.
Hwang Miyeon. Thirty-seven years old. Freelance graphic designer.
Found in the Han on July 3.
Classified: accidental drowning.
Closed in one week.
But in the recovery photos…
The hands.
The position.
And on the inside of the left wrist, almost erased by the water:
나는 여기 있다.
Three women.
Three quick closures.
Five months of activity in Seoul without anyone — without me — seeing it.
That did something inside me.
It wasn't shame.
It wasn't anger.
It was something worse.
Recognition.
I crushed it before it could grow.
I opened the three folders side by side.
Women.
Thirty-five to forty-two.
Single or recently single.
Professionally visible.
Six-week intervals.
Dressed to be seen.
No signs of struggle.
And the app.
Always the app.
K_Seoul_83.
I requested a trace.
The answer came two hours later:
VPN.
Temporary email.
No useful metadata.
Profile created June 15.
Two weeks before the first victim.
Methodical.
Patient.
Comfortable in the dark.
I also requested a cross-check of conversations.
Eleven contacts in five months.
Three dead.
Eight… alive.
For now.
I contacted the app company.
Court order.
I needed those names.
And while I waited…
I did something I shouldn't have done.
I opened a new account on Melon Dating.
No real name.
No photo.
In the description I wrote a single sentence:
I know exactly what I'm looking for.
That makes it harder.
I stared at it for a few seconds before saving.
I told myself it was tactical.
I told myself it was profiling.
I told myself a lot of things.
Not all of them were true.
Lee Chanho was waiting for me in the hallway at nine.
We slipped into the empty coffee room.
—A moment —he said.
He closed the door.
—When are you going to tell Park there are three?
—Tomorrow.
—Kang… —Pause—. I know what you're doing.
—Investigating.
—You're working alone. Just like in Busan.
The name landed heavy between us.
Sixteen months.
One suspension.
One uncomfortable promotion.
—Not this time —I said.
Lee held my gaze.
—I hope not.
He leaned against the wall.
—The Busan one killed because he could. Opportunistic. Empty. —He chose each word—. This one doesn't.
Silence.
—This one builds scenes —he continued—. Leaves messages. Chooses with time.
Pause.
—This one knows someone is reading him.
I looked at him.
—And you think that someone is me?
Lee drank water before answering.
—I think you think it's you.
…
—And that worries me more than the killer.
He left without waiting for a response.
I stayed alone with the hum of the fluorescent light.
I looked at my phone.
The app.
My new profile.
No notifications.
Not yet.
But for the first time since this started…
I had the clear, uncomfortable feeling
That someone
Had already seen me.