Joker (5)
His alarm blared at 6 a.m. The man's hand instinctively reached for his phone, scrolling through the news, only to twist into a bitter smirk. The incident in Gangcheon was still dead silent today. Did the cops have someone with a bit of brains after all? Even with a woman found dead, covered in wounds across her body, the quiet meant they'd slapped an embargo on it.
He'd been hoping to gauge the news angle and police response, but this left him oddly deflated. His opponent hadn't even shown up at the poker table, leaving no way to peek at their hand.
Fine. Today was for hunting a new target anyway. Just thinking about it sent an unbearable hunger surging through him.
Checking his wristwatch, he rose—right as his phone rang.
"Yes. Understood."
His thick brows twitched as he hung up. He'd cleared his schedule a week ago for today, yet here was an unexpected summons. He despised these unforeseen variables.
Should he scrap the hunt? With a low sigh, he shook his head fiercely. Over the past month, five tails on this target had mapped her routes perfectly. No friends, no lover—just clockwork precision in her movements. The perfect prey.
* * *
7:33 p.m. A luxury sedan purred smoothly into motion. The target must've clocked out already; lights glowed from her third-floor villa. Unlike that multi-family in Gangcheon, this place had a door lock, and too many prying eyes around to smash the handle.
The ideal play was slipping in as she opened the door, but he'd missed her commute. No chance tonight.
Turning onto the main road, his eyes caught a black Jeep with heavy tint—out of place in this neighborhood. An odd unease gripped him; his hands quickened on the wheel.
About a kilometer past that alley, he slammed the brakes. He'd fought it with everything, but the ravenous hunger hit like madness. He craved the pulse under his fingers as he strangled her throat, the light fading from her eyes.
The man loathed impulses. Everything followed sequence, procedure, plan—that was him. But the suffocating thirst overpowered him.
His fevered gaze locked on a young woman laboring up the hill, steps wobbly like she'd been drinking. Yes. One little detour. A chilling smile crept across his lips.
* * *
"Hyungnim, this is that bastard's work, right? This psycho fuck!"
"……."
The scene mirrored Na Su-mi's almost perfectly. The only difference, per his past life's records: the victim's mouth torn horizontally ear to ear. Her terror-stricken eyes stared at the blank ceiling, as if refusing to accept her death to the end. The blood pooling on the floor still held warmth.
"Cheol-gu, what the hell are you doing here? This ain't your turf."
As he barked orders into the radio for police to cordon the area, a familiar voice cut in. Jeon Woo-seop—fellow police academy buddy from the recent promotion ceremony, now a violent crimes detective in Yongin-gu—grabbed his shoulder roughly.
"Woo-seop. Seal off 3—no, 5 kilometers around the scene right now. He hasn't gotten far."
"What the hell are you talking about? 'He'? And this is our jurisdiction! Why're you giving orders?"
I seized Woo-seop's collar. "Listen up. We don't have time for this shit. If we don't nab this fucker now, there's another body. And then I'll grind you up first."
"What the hell? I don't know how you knew to come here, but don't contaminate my scene—get out. I'm in charge!"
The Woo-seop I knew wasn't this dense. Back at the academy, he'd been sharp with analysis and quick on his feet. But his pride—refusing to look like he was taking orders in front of his team—was eating the golden hour for catching the perp.
With a low grunt, I shoved his collar away. The victim's blood had cooled. The golden hour was gone.
A cool smile touched my lips as I stood. I didn't know what had warped history from my past life, but the big picture held. Time for Plan B.
* * *
"Inspector Kang Cheol-gu—or should I say Chief Inspector now? Congrats again on being the youngest ever."
"Thanks, Reporter Cha."
"I know you're not thanking me for that first scoop I wrote nice. So, what's the deal? Why'd you wanna meet?"
Cha Mi-ran from Kangseong Ilbo—the reporter I'd first crossed paths with on the Jungcheon academy violence case—grinned at me. Gone was the plain jeans from the scene; her white blouse and Chanel-line skirt drew every eye as she entered the café.
She could smile now, but that article had been explosive. With national outrage aimed at me, she'd gone against the tide on a kid's word alone, breaking it as a flash without even desk review. One wrong call, and she'd be out on her ass alone.
A woman with killer instinct for the gamble. That was my read on her.
"How's the reporter grind these days?"
"You know this world—why ask? Day labor, scraping by. Eyes peeled daily for the next gossip fix. That's a journo's life."
She flung her arms wide in exaggerated complaint, then scooted her chair closer. "If you're here to feed this poor scribbler her daily bread, spill it. We trade favors, get cozy—deal?"
Sweeping hair behind her ear, Cha Mi-ran’s eyes gleamed.
"Nothing big. Let's cook up a case together."
"Whoa! Dangerous words, Chief Inspector. Cops solve cases; reporters report 'em. We're not the ones making 'em up. …But I'm curious. What case?"
She toyed with her parted lips, tilting her head coyly.
"You know the Yongin-gu murder yesterday? Twenties woman."
"Yeah, the one slashed all over, mouth ripped? Why?"
"Keep the overall tone, but twist it a bit. Or fabricate, really."
"What?!"
Glancing around, she leaned in to whisper. "Faking evidence not even on the body? You know what that means?"
"Yeah. Worst case, we're both stripped of badges."
She crossed her arms, jaw set in disbelief at my calm. "All those cases you cracked—same playbook?"
"You know better than that."
Cha Mi-ran shot me a look with a sigh. "…Explain. Why go this far? Convince me, or I'll dig into every one of your cases."
"Can't spill all—investigation secrets—but this is a planned serial kill. Miss him now, another victim. I get it's asking you to risk your career with fake news. Reporters deliver messages, not play messenger—and shouldn't. But I'm begging you to messenger for saving lives. Be a messenger worth something."
Her eyes darted, then a smirk curled her lips. "You sure know how to poke a girl. But proof my story'll help?"
"Top profiler in the field advised it."
"Top?"
I nodded slowly at her wavering gaze. 'Sergeant Heo Seon-sil, you were right. He mutilated the body on the second kill. One more thing—ways to rattle a psycho like this?'
'Interrogation has methods, but to just shake and prod….' Her eyes narrowed, imagining. '…Hitting 'em from behind works best.'
'How?'
'Enough prep for his goals, not sex or money kills but pleasure kills, no DNA left behind. That's the perp so far. Extreme self-confidence. Hit that from behind by making him doubt himself. That's surefire. Question his actions, his conviction crumbles, walls fall.'
Arms crossed, staring at her shoes under the table, Cha Mi-ran finally spoke. "Tough ask, no matter how I slice it. Go off-narrative from mainstream, and the desk—hell, every other reporter—'ll chew me up. 'Source it!' or 'Police puppet!' fingers pointed. …Still want me in?"
"No whining. I saw your guts last time, diverging from the pack. And you've already crunched the cost-benefit in your head."
Her face flushed; then a hearty, unladylike laugh burst out. "Fine, jumping into the fire. No more shocks?"
"One last favor. Might eclipse all the risk so far."
At my gesture, she glanced around and leaned close. A moment later, Cha Mi-ran bellowed again, ignoring stares, snarling like she'd grab my collar. "No way! That's just telling me to die!"
* * *
As always, up at 6 a.m. Booze or all-nighters, his wake time stayed ironclad. This tiny self-imposed chain set him apart.
His habitual phone grab paused. He wagged his hand, reliving yesterday. True terror silenced screams. Knife to her lips, she couldn't even beg—just rubbed her hands frantically. The blade sliced her face; this hand choked her throat. The feel lingered vividly.
Everything perfect—save one thing.
Image training countless times for the lip cut, but reality differed. The torn mouth captured the horror he wanted, but clashed with his aesthetic.
Tear both sides next? Or…! His heart raced at the thought. Licking his lips, he checked news.
Kukukuk! Irresistible laughter; his mouth corners lifted.
Media swarmed yesterday's case competitively. Gangcheon's first had embargo lifted too, sharing pages; some cautiously floated serial killer theories.
His finger, flicking screens with narrowed eyes, stopped.
Kangseong Ilbo. No major daily, but known for bold counters to the tide, with its cult following.
Short inhale; his pupils dilated. Bolting upright in bed, his hands began to tremble.