I Can Hear a Serial Killer's Voice in My Head

The air is heavy with a sense of unease as I make my way through the dimly lit streets of the old neighborhood, the address my grandmother gave me clutched tightly in my hand. It's been years since I last saw Jung, and my memories of him are hazy and indistinct, a jumble of childhood impressions and half-forgotten moments.

As I approach the shabby apartment building where Jung lives, I can feel a sense of trepidation washing over me. The streets here are dark and dirty, the buildings crumbling and neglected. It's the kind of place where poverty and desperation hang heavy in the air, where hope goes to die a slow and painful death.

I make my way up the creaking stairs to the second floor, my heart pounding in my chest as I search for Jung's apartment. And then, just as I'm about to knock on the door, I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye.

A man is approaching the apartment, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched as if carrying a heavy burden. In the dim light of the stairwell, I can't make out his features clearly, but something about his posture and gait seems familiar.

"Jung?" I call out, my voice echoing in the stillness of the night. "Is that you?"

The man stops dead in his tracks, his head snapping up as he stares at me with wide, startled eyes. For a moment, he seems frozen in place, his body tense and coiled like a spring.

"It's me, Park Minjun," I say, my voice low and reassuring. "From the old neighborhood. I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I need to talk to you about something important."

Jung hesitates, his eyes darting back and forth as if searching for an escape route. The silence stretches out between us, heavy and oppressive, and for a moment, I fear that he's going to turn and run.

But then, slowly, he nods his head, his voice barely above a whisper as he asks, "What is it?"

I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest as I prepare to explain my presence. "It's my grandmother," I say, my voice filled with concern. "She's worried about you, and she asked me to check in on you. I know it's late, and I apologize for the intrusion, but I promised her I would come."

Jung's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of recognition passing across his face at the mention of my grandmother. But still, he hesitates, his body language guarded and wary.

"I'm a police officer now," I continue, hoping that my profession might lend some credibility to my visit. "I know that sometimes, people go through things that they feel like they can't talk about, things that eat away at them from the inside. If there's anything you need to get off your chest, anything at all..."

I let the words hang in the air between us, a silent offer of support and understanding. For a long moment, Jung remains silent, his eyes fixed on the ground as if weighing his options.

But then, finally, he nods his head, his voice low and resigned as he says, "Come in."

He leads me into the apartment, the door closing behind us with a soft click.

As I follow Jung into his apartment, I'm struck by the contrast between the exterior of the building and the interior of his home. While the outside is run-down and neglected, Jung's apartment is surprisingly clean and well-organized, with everything in its place and not a speck of dust to be seen.

Jung flips on the light switch, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow. I take a seat on the couch, my eyes scanning the room for any clues or insights into Jung's life.

"It's been a long time," I say, my voice filled with a forced cheer that feels out of place in the somber atmosphere of the apartment. "How have you been?"

Jung shrugs, his eyes still avoiding mine as he takes a seat across from me. "Fine," he says, his voice flat and emotionless. "Just working, mostly."

I nod, struggling to find a way to break through the wall of silence that seems to surround him. "And your family?" I ask, my voice tentative and probing. "How are they doing?"

Jung's expression darkens slightly, his eyes flickering with some unreadable emotion. "They're fine," he says, his voice tight and strained.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. But then, remembering my grandmother's concerns, I decide to press on. "I heard you got married," I say, my voice filled with genuine interest. "How is your wife doing?"

At the mention of his wife, Jung seems to withdraw even further into himself, his body language closing off like a fortress. "She's a nurse," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "At the local hospital. She works late shifts, so she always comes home late."

I nod, feeling a sense of awkwardness and discomfort settling over the room like a heavy blanket. It's clear that Jung doesn't want to talk about his personal life, and I don't want to push him too far.

"Well, if you ever need anything," I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a business card, "please don't hesitate to call me. I'm here to help, in any way I can."

I hand him the card, watching as he takes it with a nod of acknowledgment. "And my grandmother," I continue, my voice filled with a gentle reminder. "She misses you, and she's hoping you'll come visit her at the restaurant sometime soon."

Jung nods again, his eyes still fixed on the floor. "I'll try," he says, his voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

I stand up, sensing that my welcome has run its course. "Take care of yourself, Jung," I say, my voice filled with genuine concern. "And remember, if you ever need anything, anything at all, I'm just a phone call away."

Jung walks me to the door, his movements stiff and awkward. As I step out into the hallway, I turn back to look at him one last time, my heart heavy with the weight of the secrets and the pain that seem to be crushing him from the inside out.

"Goodbye, Jung," I say, my voice soft and sad. "I hope to see you again soon."

And then I'm gone, the door closing behind me with a soft click.

As I make my way down the dimly lit street, my mind reeling from the strange and unsettling encounter with Jung, I can feel a familiar presence stirring in the back of my mind. It's Bundy, his voice filled with a dark and twisted sort of glee.

"You noticed it too, didn't you?" he asks, his words echoing in my mind like a sinister whisper.

I don't respond at first, my thoughts still swirling with the images and impressions of Jung's apartment. The cleanliness, the order, the sense of emptiness and isolation that seemed to permeate every corner of the space.

"Come on, Park," Bundy prods, his voice growing more insistent. "I know you saw it. You're too smart not to have picked up on the clues."

I take a deep breath, my jaw clenching with the effort of holding back the flood of emotions that threatens to overwhelm me. "Yes," I say at last, my voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed."

Bundy chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. "And you know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

I nod, my heart heavy with the weight of the realization that has been slowly dawning on me since the moment I stepped into Jung's apartment. "Yes," I say, my voice filled with a grim certainty. "I know."

Bundy's voice drops to a sinister whisper, his words filled with a dark and twisted sort of satisfaction. "That apartment," he says, his tone dripping with malice, "it didn't look like it was shared by two people, did it? The way everything was so neat and tidy, the way there was no trace of a woman's touch or presence..."

"He's lying," Bundy hisses, his voice filled with a perverse sort of glee. "About his wife."

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