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

As I pull up to the community center, a squat, unassuming building nestled in the heart of rural Seoul, I can't shake the feeling of unease that settles in the pit of my stomach. This is the kind of place where retirees come to while away their golden years, to pursue hobbies and passions that they never had time for in the midst of their busy working lives.

It's not the kind of place where you'd expect to find a lead on a twisted serial killer.

But as I step inside and make my way to the art room, I remind myself that evil can lurk anywhere, that darkness can take root in even the most unlikely of places.

The art teacher, a soft-spoken man with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor, greets me with a warm smile and a firm handshake. But as we settle into our seats and I explain the purpose of my visit, his expression grows troubled, his brow furrowing with concern.

"Yuri," he says, her name hanging heavy in the air between us. "Yes, I remember her. She was a strange one, always keeping to herself, always hiding behind that cap of hers."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes distant as he recalls the young woman who had once been his student. "Her art... it was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Dark, disturbing, filled with a kind of raw, primal energy that seemed to come from someplace deep inside her."

I lean forward, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and dread. "Can you tell me more about her?" I ask, my voice low and urgent. "Anything you remember, any details that might help us understand who she is and why she might be involved in these murders?"

The teacher nods, his expression thoughtful as he sifts through his memories. "She was quiet, reserved, always keeping her distance from the other students. When I asked her why she wanted to learn art, she just shrugged and said 'no reason.' But I could tell there was something driving her, some kind of inner turmoil that she was trying to express through her work."

He shakes his head, a shudder running through his body as he recalls the impact of Yuri's art on his other students. "Her paintings... they were so shocking, so disturbing, that they terrified the other students. Mostly older folks, you know, not used to seeing that kind of darkness and violence in their art classes. I had to ask her to find another place to learn, to spare them the trauma of it all."

I nod, my mind racing with the implications of his words. A young woman with a talent for dark, disturbing art, a loner with a mysterious past and a penchant for shocking those around her...

It's not much to go on, but it's more than we had before.

I thank the teacher for his time and his insights, my hand shaking slightly as I take down Yuri's contact information. I try calling her as soon as I leave the community center, my heart pounding with a mix of hope and fear as I listen to the phone ring and ring.

But there's no answer, no sign of life on the other end of the line. I leave a message, my voice tight with tension as I ask her to call me back, to come in and talk to us about her art and her connection to the "Artist" killer.

As I make my way back to the unit, my mind is buzzing with questions and possibilities. Could Yuri be the key to cracking this case? Could her twisted vision and dark talent be the link we've been searching for all this time?

But even as I ponder these questions, I can't escape the feeling of dread that hangs over the city like a dark, suffocating cloud. Everywhere I look, people are talking about the "Artist," speculating about his motives and his methods, glorifying his twisted crimes in a way that makes my stomach churn.

And then, as if on cue, Bundy's voice slithers into my mind, his tone dripping with a perverse sort of glee. "Ah, the old 'serial killer as celebrity' routine," he chuckles, his words echoing in my head like a sinister lullaby. "Tale as old as time, isn't it, Park? The public claims to be disgusted, but deep down, they can't look away.

They're fascinated by the darkness, drawn to the twisted allure of the killer's mind."

I try to push his voice aside, to focus on the task at hand. But Bundy is relentless, his presence like a weight pressing down on my chest, suffocating me with his twisted insights.

"It was the same with me, you know," he whispers, his voice filled with a perverse sort of pride. "People claimed to be horrified by my crimes, but they couldn't get enough of my story. They devoured every detail, every lurid headline and gory photograph. Some even worshipped me, saw me as some kind of dark messiah, a prophet of death and destruction."

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I try to block out his words. But even as I sit there in my car, the weight of the case pressing down on me like a physical burden, I can't shake the feeling that Bundy is right.

There is a sickness in our society, a dark fascination with violence and depravity that we can't seem to shake. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know that the "Artist" killer is tapping into that sickness, feeding off the morbid curiosity and twisted adulation of the masses.

As I step into the bustling chaos of the unit, my mind is still reeling from the revelations at the community center. The art teacher's words echo in my head, a haunting refrain that I can't seem to shake.

Yuri. The dark, disturbing art. The sense of unease and terror that she inspired in those around her.

It's not much to go on, but it's more than we had before. And as I make my way through the sea of desks and officers, I can feel a flicker of hope stirring in my chest, a sense that we might finally be on the verge of a breakthrough.

I find Han hunched over his desk, his brow furrowed with concentration as he pores over a stack of case files. He looks up as I approach, his eyes widening with a mix of surprise and anticipation.

"Park," he says, his voice low and urgent. "Tell me you've got something."

I nod, my heart pounding with a sudden surge of adrenaline. "I think I might," I say, my words tumbling out in a rush. "I spoke with an art teacher at a local community center. He had a student named Yuri, a young woman with a talent for dark, disturbing art. He said her work was unlike anything he'd ever seen before, that it terrified the other students and even himself."

Han leans forward, his expression intense as he listens to my report. "And you think this Yuri might be connected to our 'Artist' killer?" he asks, his voice tight with tension.

I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "I don't know for sure," I admit, my voice steady and measured. "But the teacher's description of her art, the sense of darkness and violence that seemed to radiate from her... it's not a huge leap to think that she might be involved somehow."

Han nods, his expression thoughtful as he considers my words. "We need to find her," he says, his voice filled with a quiet determination. "We need to bring her in for questioning, see if she has any connection to the murders."

I hesitate for a moment, a flicker of unease stirring in my gut. "But how do we do that?" I ask, my voice low and uncertain. "We don't have enough evidence to get a warrant, and if we use our authority to track her down without probable cause..."

Han sighs, his shoulders slumping with the weight of the decision. "I know," he says, his voice heavy with resignation. "It's a risk. If she turns out to be innocent, if we violate her privacy without justification... it could blow up in our faces, turn the public against us even more than they already are."

We sit there in silence for a moment, the weight of the case pressing down on us like a physical burden. But just as I'm about to speak, to offer some words of encouragement or support, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.

I pull it out, my heart skipping a beat as I see the name on the screen.

It's from Yuri.