The waiter's name was Oh Junho.
Twenty-three years old.
The kind of visual memory you develop after spending eight hours a day watching faces and, without realizing it, learning which ones are worth remembering.
Im Suah found him during the following Saturday shift at Café Bora in Insadong and brought him to the office Sunday morning with a quiet confidence she rarely wasted.
I believed him the moment Oh Junho opened his mouth.
— That man — he said, looking at the frozen frame on Jung's screen — yes, he was here. I remember because he ordered a large lavender latte… and he didn't close his laptop even once.
I didn't look away from the monitor.
— Is that unusual?
— Yes. — Junho hesitated briefly —. Most people close it when they get up to order or when they stop using it. He didn't. He left it open the whole time. Like he wasn't worried someone might look.
Or like he knew exactly who was looking.
— How long was he here? — I asked.
— Less than half an hour. He arrived, ordered, sat at the back table… — he pointed at the screen — and left. Not in a hurry. But without lingering.
Time control.
Another mark.
— Did he speak to anyone?
— No. Not to the nearby tables either. — Junho frowned slightly —. But he did look.
I lifted my gaze.
— Look at what?
Junho searched carefully for the word.
— At people. At the tables. — Pause —. I noticed because I was cleaning the counter. It wasn't the look of someone bored. It was more… methodical.
Brief silence.
— Like he was checking something.
Im Suah stopped writing for half a second.
I didn't speak either.
— What did he look like physically? — I asked.
— Tall. About six feet, maybe. Slim, but not skinny. Face… — he hesitated — serious. Not unfriendly. Not cold. Just…
— Thinking — I said.
Junho blinked.
— Yes. Like he was thinking about something all the time.
That fit too well.
— Age?
— Late thirties. Maybe forty.
— Any other detail?
Junho frowned, diving into memory.
— He was wearing a watch. I saw it when he paid. — He made a circle at his wrist —. Brown leather. Classic. Not a smartwatch.
Analog anchor.
Interesting.
— Almost nobody wears those now — Junho added quietly.
I didn't answer.
I already knew.
The composite sketch arrived Sunday at two.
It was what they always are: an approximation built from memories the brain rewrites every time it touches them.
But it was enough.
Male.
Regular features.
Broad forehead.
Straight nose.
Eyes — according to Oh Junho — dark… with the unsettling impression of always being half a step ahead of the conversation.
I distributed the sketch to the three districts.
I knew the odds.
Four million men in Seoul.
But we were no longer blind.
— Should we show it to the families? — Im Suah asked.
— This afternoon. All three.
Hwang Miyeon's mother lived in Dobong-gu.
The small dog barked without conviction when we entered and fell asleep three minutes later, as if even it was too tired to maintain alertness.
Mrs. Hwang Gyeongja stared at the sketch for a long time.
Too long.
— I don't know him — she said at last.
Then she hesitated.
I leaned slightly forward.
— What is it, Mrs. Hwang?
Her hands folded over her skirt.
— My daughter… mentioned once that she had met someone online. — She swallowed —. She said he was different.
Silence.
— Different how?
The woman raised her eyes.
— She said: Eomma… most men want me to be what they need.
Pause.
— This one wants to know who I really am.
The air in the room shifted.
The facial analysis came in Monday morning.
Exactly as I expected.
Exactly as I didn't like seeing confirmed.
No matches in the Metropolitan Police database.
No matches in the national registry.
No matches in Interpol.
K_Seoul_83 did not exist.
Or not where we usually look.
— And the prepaid phone? — I asked.
Jung spun in his chair.
— Used once. To send you the message. — Measured pause —. Triangulation places it in… Itaewon.
Too close to Choi Areum.
— Was he watching us? — I said.
— Or he wanted us to think so.
Misdirection.
The board was still moving.
I called Dr. Shin Daeho that same afternoon.
He received me in his Mapo-gu office, surrounded by books and half-neglected plants. He had that uncomfortably precise gaze of someone who doesn't just hear what you say.
He hears what you choose not to say.
I laid out the case without names.
When I finished, he spoke without turning.
— He isn't impulsive. You already know that.
— Yes.
— The scene isn't ritual in the religious sense. — He turned —. It's demonstrative. He's proving something.
— What?
— Control.
Silence.
— Not just over the victims — he continued —. Over the narrative. Over how he is perceived.
His eyes fixed on me.
— The message I am here isn't classic ego. It's… an assertion of existence.
I felt something slight in my chest.
— What kind of profile does that?
— Someone who, at some point, felt they didn't exist.
Pause.
— Or that no one was looking at them.
We discussed the watch.
— Preferring analog in something so visible — Shin said — is a statement of identity. Deliberate.
Then he shifted angles without warning.
— Detective Kang. How long have you been in contact?
— Four days.
— And he already has your personal number?
— Yes.
Shin watched me in silence for three full seconds.
Uncomfortably full.
— Have you ever voluntarily consulted a psychiatrist?
The question came clean.
Precise.
— Not in recent years.
— Would you consider it?
— Why?
He chose his words like a scalpel.
— Because when a perpetrator establishes direct contact with the investigator… the dynamics rarely remain unilateral.
Silence.
Then, softer:
— And because you describe him with an unusual level of internal understanding.
I didn't answer.
Before I left, Shin said:
— Think about it when you have time.
And then:
— Are you investigating this case because it's your job… or because something about it feels personally significant?
City noise slipped through the window.
— It's my job — I said.
Shin nodded.
— Then make sure it stays that way.
On the subway, I opened the message again.
The cracks are intentional, detective.
I had saved it for protocol.
That's what I told myself.
But also — and Shin would have noticed this — I had read it three more times that morning.
Not to analyze it.
To see if it said something different.
As if it could.
The train passed beneath the Han River.
Brief darkness.
Suspended silence.
I am here.
I closed the phone.
And went back to the office.
Like always.