Seoul. 3:47 a.m.
I had just finished my second americano and was watching the rain slam against the pojangmacha window when I saw the bag.
It floated near the edge of the Han River, by Mapo Bridge, swaying with the current as if it couldn't decide whether to sink or keep drifting. It could have been trash. In Seoul, at that hour and with that kind of rain, you learn not to look too closely at what floats in the river.
I don't.
I've been in Homicide for ten years. And I always look.
I stood up before my brain finished processing the order. The stall owner — a woman in her sixties, tight bun, the kind of gaze that has already seen everything — watched me leave without saying a word.
She knows who I am.
Along this stretch of the Han, everyone does.
Detective Kang Jisoo.
The one who shows up when there are bodies.
I crossed the soaked sidewalk, went down the slippery steps toward the riverwalk, and turned on my phone flashlight.
Industrial black bag.
Silver tape.
Three wraps.
Dead weight.
I didn't need to open it to know.
I called without looking away.
— Kim. Get up.
— It's four in the morning, sunbae… — My partner's voice sounded like pillow and resentment.
— I know. Bring the kit to Mapo Bridge. South access.
Silence. Two exact seconds.
— What did you find?
I watched the bag rock with the current.
— I don't know what it is yet.
— …
— But I know what it's going to become.
I hung up.
The bag contained a woman.
Or what was left of her.
Detective Im Suah arrived seventeen minutes later with forensics, the photographer, and that expression we all cultivate sooner or later: professionalism on the outside, nausea on the inside.
Twenty-eight years old.
Three in Homicide.
Still breathing through her nose.
She learned that night.
— Oh my God… — she murmured.
— Through your mouth — I said without looking at her.
The techs worked under the rain. We set up the tent, turned on portable lights, and I crouched beside the body while Dr. Oh Byungchul began the inspection.
Female. Early thirties.
Long black hair.
Red dress — the kind that asks to be looked at.
Bare feet.
Hands bound with industrial tape.
But that wasn't what stopped me.
It was the position.
Hands folded under the chin.
Legs slightly bent.
Head tilted to the left.
She wasn't dumped.
She was placed.
Carefully.
Patiently.
Almost… respectfully.
— Sunbae… — Im Suah whispered.
— Look at the hands.
She looked. Took a second longer than normal.
— It looks… like she's praying.
— Or sleeping.
I stood up.
— Someone wanted her to look peaceful.
Dr. Oh looked up.
— Manual strangulation. Clear finger marks. — Pause. — Large hands. Probably male. — Another pause, longer. — Kang… there's something else.
I felt that small pull at the base of my skull. The one that doesn't come from instinct.
It comes from somewhere else.
— Tell me.
— On the back of her neck. There's something written.
I crouched again.
Oh moved the damp hair aside with the forceps and lit the skin.
The handwriting was small. Neat. Methodical.
Like notes from someone patient.
Four characters in Hangul.
나는 여기 있다.
I'm here, Kang.
…
I said nothing.
But something, very slowly, settled in my stomach.
The Seoul Metropolitan Police Homicide Unit permanently smells like burnt coffee and hot paper.
By six in the morning, they were already waiting for me.
Lieutenant Park Hyunsik.
Im Suah.
Lee Chanho with kimbap and zero visible emotions.
— Summary — Park said.
— Unidentified female. Thirty-five to forty-five. Strangled. Mapo Bridge, 3:50 a.m. No ID. No purse. — Pause. — And there's a message.
Park stopped chewing.
— What kind of message?
— Personal.
Silence.
— It says: I'm here, Kang.
Now no one spoke.
Lee Chanho set the kimbap down very slowly.
— Are you sure it was meant for you?
I didn't answer.
Because I already knew.
It wasn't a threat.
It was an introduction.
(My name is Kang Jisoo…)
I'm good at finding killers because I understand how they think.
That's what I tell people.
What I don't say:
That sometimes, at a scene, I don't just see what happened.
I see how I would have done it.
What I would have changed.
What I would have perfected.
…
I'd been keeping that secret for eight years.
Until that morning.
Until someone else seemed to recognize it.
(Im Suah finds the post —
User: K_Seoul_83
Description:
I know exactly who I am.
Do you too, Kang?)
This time I felt it clearly.
It wasn't instinct.
It was mutual recognition.
That night I didn't go home.
I stayed in the office late, staring at the glowing screen in the dark.
I'm here.
No.
Not exactly.
The real message was different.
I see you.
I looked at my hands.
Large.
Steady.
Capable.
Too capable.
I turned off the light.
And as the fourth-floor hallway fell silent, the question settled behind my eyes and didn't move all night.
Was I hunting the killer?
Or was I reading his messages…
…as if they were instructions?