The rain fell in soft sheets, streaking the flashing red and blue of police lights. Eun-ji stepped out of the vehicle, calm, precise, every motion measured. The world felt heavy, wet, dangerous.
Officer Jung fell into step beside her.
"Victim. Female. Found in the kitchen," he said, voice low. "Son was inside."
Eun-ji's eyes narrowed. She didn't need words. She only nodded. Together, they moved forward, their footsteps silent against the slick pavement.
Inside, the kitchen was chaos contained. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the space. Forensic teams moved methodically, snapping photos, dusting surfaces.
The broken mug caught Eun-ji's eye first. Dark stains spread across the white tile like shadows bleeding into the room. The body lay beneath a sheet, still and silent.
A forensic officer approached, voice quiet, matter-of-fact.
"Close-range attack. Personal. Not random."
Eun-ji's gaze swept the counter. Two mugs. Only one had been used.
"She wasn't alone," Eun-ji said, voice tight, eyes sharp.
The officer nodded. "The boy is alive. No injuries."
Her stomach tightened.
"But he hasn't spoken," the officer added.
Eun-ji's jaw set. "I'll talk to him."
The interrogation room smelled of bleach and cold metal. The corridor leading to it was empty, sterile, silent. Eun-ji walked with purpose, every step echoing against the walls. Two officers flanked the door. She gave them a nod, and it opened.
Inside, Do-yun sat small and still at the table. Pale. Hands folded neatly in front of him. His eyes were wide, but empty, staring through her.
The door clicked shut behind her. She slid into the chair across from him.
"Your mother..." Eun-ji's voice softened, careful. "What happened?"
No answer. Only those vacant eyes.
"Can you hear me?" She leaned in.
The boy lifted his hand slowly, touching his ear, shaking his head. Then he pointed to his throat, signing with trembling fingers. Eun-ji's heart tightened.
"You can't hear... and you can't speak," she whispered.
He lowered his gaze. Silence stretched. Then, hesitantly, he reached into his pocket. Fingers fumbled. And then—a folded piece of paper slid across the table.
Eun-ji picked it up.
A child's drawing.
Rough, jagged lines. A figure with no face, looming. Behind it, a wall of red—thick, violent, almost like blood. The figure's hollow eyes stared from the page.
"You saw this?" Eun-ji asked softly.
He nodded. Small, frightened.
He tapped the drawing, then pressed his palm against his chest. Heart. Memory. Fear.
Eun-ji exhaled slowly. Her chest felt tight as the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. She looked at him with gentleness now, letting the boy know she understood.
"It's okay," she said, voice low but firm. "This... this helps."
She stood, moving toward the door. Paused. Looked back once.
The boy stayed seated, silent, clutching the only words he could give the world.
The door clicked shut behind her.
He lowered his head. Still holding the drawing. Still holding onto the truth that no one else could speak.
Silence swallowed the room.
The conference room was tense. Thick with unspoken questions and the weight of fifty-seven deaths.
Eun-ji stood at the head of the table, sharp eyes scanning the chaos of photos, victim files, and red strings that connected everything like veins across a map of horror.
Around her sat the team: Officer Jung, Eun-chae, Lee Mi-ran, Officer Han, and Seo Ye-jin—each face a mask of focus, dread, and determination.
"What do we have?" Eun-ji's voice cut through the hum of electronics.
Officer Han stepped forward, calm but heavy with facts. "Last six months... fifty-seven deaths. All ruled suicides. Same pattern."
Silence swallowed the room.
Eun-ji's jaw tightened. "Go on."
Eun-chae spun her laptop toward everyone. Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard. "I hacked into the victims' data logs. Only one common element." She clicked. A single file appeared on the screen: PROJECT CRIMSON RED.
Jung's voice was low but firm. "That name... also connects to Cheongwha Museum Hall."
Mi-ran leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "So the victims... the project... and the museum—"
"—are all connected," Eun-ji finished, turning to the board.
Pinned across it were dozens of photographs of red paintings. Different styles. Different artists. But the same tone. Blood-red. Disturbing. Abstract.
"This is the only thing that doesn't fit," Eun-ji murmured.
She moved to the board, her fingers deftly pinning images one by one, adjusting, rotating, moving. The team watched silently, holding their breath.
Frustration crept over her face. Nothing fit. Nothing made sense.
Then, abruptly, she clicked off the main lights. Darkness swallowed the room. Only a single desk lamp illuminated the paintings, making the reds burn brighter against the shadows.
Now, she saw it.
Rotating one image upside down. Shifting another to the corner. Aligning a third diagonally. Time stretched. Only the faint hum of electronics broke the silence.
She stopped. Stepped back.
A shape emerged from the chaos.
Seo Ye-jin whispered, disbelief in her voice, "That's not random..."
"It isn't," Eun-ji breathed.
She rushed to a laptop, typing furiously. A digital map of Seoul appeared. She dragged it beside the board, aligning it, rotating it. Perfect.
The paintings weren't art. They were coordinates.
The room fell silent, the weight of realization pressing down like ice.
Mi-ran exhaled slowly. "Coordinates for... what?"
Eun-ji traced her finger over the board, over the map. Her eyes darkened. "For where the killer chooses the victims."
No one moved. No one spoke.
The case had changed. Again. And now, there was no turning back.