The haunting silence of my apartment was louder than any scream. Ever since I returned from the hospital, the four walls I once called home felt like a cage. Being an orphan, I was used to solitude, but this was different. This wasn't just being alone; it was the suffocating feeling of being watched. My shadow felt like a stranger, and every creak of the floorboards sent a jolt of electricity through my spine.
My best friend, Yoon Min-ah, couldn't bear to see me in this state. "You're coming to my place, Yea-ji," she had insisted, her eyes welling up with tears as she packed a small bag for me. But the police officers stationed at my door shook their heads. "Until we know who this man is, moving her might be more dangerous. He knows her routines. For now, staying put with extra security is the safest bet."
So, Min-ah moved in with me. Her presence was a small candle in a very dark room. We spent the night huddled on the sofa, the television humming in the background to drown out the terrifying silence of the night. Every time a car passed by outside, my heart would stop, fearing it was the black sedan returning to finish what it started.
The next morning, the sun was deceptively bright, filtering through the blinds of my Seoul apartment. Min-ah had stepped out for just ten minutes to grab some breakfast—warm buns and coffee—from the café downstairs. The police officers were shifting their guard, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a sense of normalcy. I decided to take a shower, hoping the warm water would wash away the lingering scent of hospital chemicals and the metallic taste of fear that had settled in the back of my throat.
I stepped into the bathroom, the cold tiles biting at my feet. I turned the handle of the shower, closing my eyes and expecting the soothing spray of clear water to calm my racing nerves.
But the nightmare was only beginning.
Instead of water, a thick, viscous crimson liquid exploded from the showerhead with terrifying pressure. In an instant, I was drenched in deep red. The metallic, pungent smell hit my nose—it was overpowering, sickening. For a heartbeat, my brain refused to process it. I stood there, paralyzed, as the red liquid stained my skin, my hair, and the white porcelain tiles beneath me. It looked like I was standing in a pool of blood.
Then, the scream tore out of my throat. It was a raw, primal sound of a person losing their mind. I scrambled back, slipping on the slick, red floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My hands were shaking so violently that I couldn't even reach for the curtain.
"YEA-JI! YEA-JI, WHAT HAPPENED?"
Yoon Min-ah burst into the bathroom, the bag of breakfast dropping from her hands, coffee spilling across the floor. She froze, her face turning ashen as she saw me shivering on the floor, covered in red, looking like a victim of a horrific massacre. She lunged forward, turning the shower off with shaking hands, her own clothes getting stained in the process.
"It's just paint... it's just red dye, Yea-ji! Breathe! Just breathe!" she sobbed, wrapping a thick towel around me and pulling me away from the crimson mess.
But I couldn't breathe. The message was clear. He didn't just want to hurt me; he wanted to destroy my sanity. He had entered my sanctuary. He had tampered with my pipes while the police were supposedly guarding me. He was in my house while I slept. He wasn't a hunter looking for a kill; he was a demon looking for my soul.
The investigation that followed was a blur of flashing lights and stern voices. Min-ah was questioned repeatedly, the detectives looking at her with suspicion before checking the CCTV. The footage showed her returning with the breakfast just moments before my scream. There was no sign of any stranger entering or leaving. It was as if the attacker was a ghost, slipping through cracks and disappearing into thin air.
The police were baffled. "He's playing with us," the lead officer muttered, frustration evident in his voice. "This guy is a professional. He knows the blind spots of the cameras better than we do. He's mocking our security."
Realizing the local police were out of their depth, the department decided to bring in a specialist. Detective song seok-jae I had heard of him in the news. He was the kind of man who dealt with the 'impossible' cases—the ones that left other detectives scratching their heads. They said he could see things others missed, that he understood the mind of a predator because he thought like one.
As I sat on my sofa, wrapped in a blanket and shivering despite the heat, I still felt the phantom stain of red on my skin. I looked up to see a man standing at my door. He didn't look like a hero. He looked tired, wearing a long coat, his eyes sharp and observant, taking in every detail of my disheveled state and the fear-stricken apartment.
"I'm Detective song seok-jae," he said, his voice calm but heavy, cutting through the frantic whispers of the other officers. "I don't believe in ghosts, Kim Yea-ji. And I certainly don't believe in perfect crimes. We will find him."
For the first time in days, I felt a tiny spark of hope. But deep down, a terrifying thought remained: If this detective was the best, then the man hunting me was surely the worst.
The game was no longer about survival. It was a race against a man who was already inside my head, waiting for the perfect moment to strike again.