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

As Han and I make our way through the narrow, winding streets of northern Seoul, I can't help but feel a sense of unease. This is a neighborhood I know all too well, a place where poverty and desperation hang heavy in the air like a thick, choking fog.

But Han seems oblivious to the atmosphere, his face bright with anticipation as we approach my grandmother's restaurant. It's a small, unassuming place, the faded sign above the door barely legible in the dim light of the street lamps.

From the outside, the restaurant looks shabby and run-down, its walls stained with years of grime and neglect. But as we step inside, I'm struck by the warmth and the homey feel of the place, the savory scent of simmering stews and sizzling meats filling the air.

The restaurant is nearly empty at this late hour, the tables and chairs worn but clean, the floor scuffed but swept. My grandmother emerges from the kitchen, her face breaking into a wide, welcoming smile as she spots us.

"Ah, my grandson!" she exclaims, her voice filled with pride and affection. "And you've brought a friend, I see."

Han bows deeply, his face split by a grin. "It's an honor to meet you, grandmother," he says, his voice filled with respect. "Your grandson has told me so much about your famous cooking."

My grandmother blushes at the compliment, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, I hope he hasn't set your expectations too high," she says, her voice teasing. "But come, sit. I'll whip up something special for you boys."

As we take our seats at a nearby table, I can't help but feel a sense of warmth and contentment wash over me. This place, with its humble decor and its homey atmosphere, feels like a sanctuary in the midst of the chaos and the darkness of the city.

But just as we're settling in, the door to the restaurant swings open and a man enters, his face shadowed by a heavy, dark coat. He's older, maybe in his 50s or 60s, with a weathered, careworn face and eyes that seem to hold a lifetime of secrets.

My grandmother greets him warmly, her face lighting up with recognition. "Ah, Mr. Lee!" she exclaims, her voice filled with affection. "It's so good to see you again. Your usual, I presume?"

The man nods, his face impassive as he takes a seat at a nearby table. He doesn't speak, doesn't even acknowledge our presence as my grandmother bustles off to the kitchen to prepare his meal.

Han leans in closer to me, his voice low and curious. "Who's that?" he asks, his eyes fixed on the mysterious stranger.

I shrug, feeling a flicker of unease in the pit of my stomach. "I'm not sure," I say, my voice hesitant. "He's been coming here for years, always orders the same thing. But he never talks, never really interacts with anyone."

Han nods, his brow furrowed in thought. "You know," he says, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, "there are rumors about you and Senior Superintendent Choi. People say you're related, that he's taken a special interest in your career."

I feel a flush of anger and embarrassment wash over me, my fists clenching beneath the table. "That's ridiculous," I say, my voice tight with emotion. "Choi and I... we're not related. He's just my boss, nothing more."

But even as the words leave my lips, I can't help but feel a flicker of doubt, a sense that there are secrets and mysteries lurking just beneath the surface of my life.

As my grandmother returns with steaming plates of fragrant, home-cooked food, I push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the warmth and the comfort of this moment.

She takes a seat at our table, her face etched with concern, and I can feel a sense of unease settling over me. She leans in close, her voice low and urgent as she begins to speak.

"Do you remember Jung, our old neighbor's son?" she asks, her eyes searching mine for recognition. "I'm worried about him. He's been coming to the restaurant lately, and he seems... troubled."

I nod, my mind racing back to the young man I had known in my youth. Jung had always been a quiet, serious sort, the kind of person who kept his problems close to his chest.

"What's going on?" I ask, my voice gentle but probing.

My grandmother sighs, her shoulders slumping with the weight of her words. "I think he's having problems with his wife," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "He won't say much, but I can see the pain in his eyes. I was hoping... maybe you could go and check on him? See if there's anything you can do to help?"

I feel a flicker of hesitation, a sense of unease at the thought of getting involved in someone else's personal affairs. "Grandmother," I say, my voice gentle but firm, "I'm not sure that's a good idea. I'm busy with my new job, and I don't really have the time to..."

But before I can finish my sentence, Han leans forward, his face eager and earnest. "Now, now," he says, his voice filled with a forced cheer, "let's not be too hasty. Surely there's something we can do to help, even if it's just lending an ear or offering some friendly advice."

I feel a flicker of irritation at his words, a sense that he's overstepping his bounds. But before I can respond, my grandmother reaches out and takes my hand, her eyes pleading.

"Please," she says, her voice trembling with emotion, "Jung has always been so kind to me, so generous with his time and his money. I hate to see him suffering like this."

I take a deep breath, feeling torn between my duty as a police officer and my desire to help an old friend in need. But as I look into my grandmother's eyes, I know that I can't turn my back on her, can't simply walk away from the pain and the desperation that I see there.

"Grandmother," I say, my voice low and urgent, "let's talk about this in private. I don't want to bother Inspector Han with the details, not when he's already gone out of his way to visit us tonight."

Han starts to protest, his face etched with concern. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice hesitant. "I'm happy to help in any way I can."

But I shake my head, feeling a sense of resolve settle over me. "I'm sure," I say, my voice firm and steady. "Thank you for your offer, Inspector Han. But this is something I need to handle on my own."

Han rises from his seat, his face split by a wide, easy grin. "Well, I should be heading out," he says, his voice filled with warmth and gratitude. "Thank you so much for the delicious meal, grandmother. It was truly a pleasure."

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and starting to rifle through the bills inside. But my grandmother is quick to intervene, her hand darting out to stop him in his tracks.

"No, no, no," she says, her voice firm but kind. "Put that away, Inspector Han. Your money's no good here."

Han starts to protest, his face etched with a mix of surprise and embarrassment. "But grandmother," he says, his voice hesitant, "I can't just let you feed me for free. Please, let me pay for my share."

But my grandmother is having none of it. She fixes him with a stern look, her eyes twinkling with mischief and affection. "Nonsense," she says, her voice brooking no argument. "You're a friend of my grandson's, and that makes you family. And family doesn't pay in this restaurant."

They go back and forth for a few moments, Han trying to insist on paying and my grandmother refusing to budge. But in the end, Han relents, his face breaking into a wide, grateful smile.

"Alright, alright," he says, his voice filled with laughter and defeat. "You win, grandmother. But I'm warning you, I'll be back. And next time, I'm bringing the whole team."

My grandmother claps her hands in delight, her face lighting up with joy at the prospect. "Wonderful!" she exclaims. "I'll be sure to make enough food to feed an army."

As Han makes his way out of the restaurant, he turns back to wave goodbye, his face still split by that easy, infectious grin. "Until next time," he calls out, his voice echoing in the stillness of the night.

And then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him and the restaurant falling silent once more.

A few moments later, Mr. Lee rises from his own table, his face still shadowed and his movements still stiff and awkward. He makes his way to the counter, pulling out a few crumpled bills and placing them carefully on the surface.

"Thank you," he mumbles, his voice low and gruff. And then he, too, is gone, slipping out into the night like a ghost.

And then it's just me and my grandmother, alone in the quiet stillness of the restaurant. She turns to me, her face etched with concern and her eyes filled with a quiet urgency.

"Now," she says, her voice low and serious, "about Jung..."

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