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

The sun has barely risen when I park my car across from Oh and Song's apartment, my hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. I've been here since dawn, waiting, watching. The street is quiet, with only the occasional early morning commuter hurrying past.

At exactly 8:45 AM, I see movement. Song emerges from the building, dressed in a neat blue blouse and dark slacks. She's pulling a small, burgundy suitcase behind her, its wheels making a soft clicking sound on the pavement. My heart rate picks up as I watch her approach the bus stop.

I slouch down in my seat as she glances around, her eyes sweeping past my car without a second look. The bus arrives right on schedule, and I watch as Song boards, disappearing into its interior.

With my heart pounding, I wait until the last possible moment before sprinting across the street. I barely make it, slipping through the closing doors and nearly stumbling as the bus lurches forward. I quickly make my way to the back, settling into a seat where I can keep an eye on Song without being too conspicuous.

Every time she shifts or looks around, I bury my face in a newspaper I grabbed for this purpose. The familiar streets of Seoul gradually give way to less familiar territory. I try to keep track of our route, but my attention is split between our location and making sure I don't lose sight of Song.

After about an hour, the bus pulls into a transfer station. My stomach knots with tension as Song stands to disembark. I follow at a careful distance, nearly losing her in the crowd of travelers. Panic rises in my throat as I scan the sea of faces, desperately searching for her familiar figure.

Just as I'm about to give up, I spot her boarding another bus. I break into a run, managing to slip on board just as the driver is closing the doors. This time, I'm forced to sit closer to her than I'd like, and I spend the entire ride on edge, terrified she'll turn and recognize me.

The new bus winds through unfamiliar roads, heading towards what I realize must be the outskirts of Seoul. The cityscape has given way to a mix of industrial areas and patches of countryside. I've completely lost track of where we are, my entire focus on Song's seated figure a few rows ahead.

After what feels like an eternity, a sign announces our arrival in Yongin. Song stands, gathering her belongings, and I tense in anticipation. As she steps off the bus at Yongin Central Bus Station, I count to ten before following.

The streets of Yongin are unfamiliar to me, and I have to rely on glimpses of Song's blue blouse and burgundy suitcase to keep on her trail. She moves with purpose, clearly familiar with the route. I duck behind street vendors and into shop doorways whenever she pauses or looks back.

Just when I think I've lost her in a particularly crowded intersection, I catch sight of her suitcase disappearing around a corner. My pulse quickens as I hurry to catch up, trying to look casual while keeping her in sight.

The buildings around us have changed, becoming more spread out. There are more trees, and the air feels different - cleaner, somehow. Song's pace slows, and I duck behind a parked car, my breath catching in my throat as she approaches a large, imposing building set back from the road.

My eyes widen as I read the sign: Yongin Mental Hospital and Shelter. The building is a stark, white structure, its windows reflecting the mid-morning sun. A high fence surrounds the property, with a security checkpoint at the entrance.

I watch, frozen in place, as Song approaches the checkpoint. She exchanges a few words with the guard, who nods and waves her through. As she walks up the path to the main entrance, her figure growing smaller, a million questions explode in my mind.

What connection does Song have to this place? Is she visiting someone? Or is she herself a patient? The weekly nature of her visits suggests a routine, but of what kind?

As I watch Song disappear into the hospital, I'm struck by a sudden impulse. Before I can second-guess myself, I'm moving towards the entrance, my heart pounding in my chest.

I slip through the main doors, the sterile smell of disinfectant hitting me immediately. The reception area is bustling with activity, but I spot Song easily. She's talking to a receptionist, her voice too low for me to hear. After a brief exchange, a nurse appears and leads Song down a corridor, out of sight.

Taking a deep breath, I approach the reception desk. The same receptionist Song spoke to looks up at me, her expression neutral. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm looking for information about a woman who just came in. Song Mi-kyung."

The receptionist's face hardens. "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't disclose information about our patients or visitors."

I hesitate for a moment, then pull out my badge. "I'm Officer Park from the Seoul Metropolitan Police. I'm conducting an investigation and need to know why Song Mi-kyung is here."

The receptionist's eyes widen slightly at the sight of my badge. She glances around nervously before picking up her phone. "One moment, please," she says, speaking quietly into the receiver.

After a brief conversation, she puts down the phone and turns back to me. "Song Mi-kyung is here to visit a family member," she says, her tone clipped.

I feel a jolt of surprise. "A family member?" I repeat, my mind racing. "Are you sure about that? Our records indicate that she has no living family besides her husband."

The receptionist shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. "That's all the information I can provide."

"Is there any way I could get more details?" I press, leaning forward slightly. "It's crucial to my investigation."

Before the receptionist can respond, a man in a crisp suit approaches. "I'm the hospital manager," he says, his voice firm. "Is there a problem here?"

I turn to face him, explaining my situation once again. The manager listens, his face impassive.

"Officer," he says when I finish, "I understand you're conducting an investigation, but we take patient privacy very seriously here. Without an official warrant, I'm afraid we can't provide any more information. If you want details about our patients or visitors, you'll need to go through the proper legal channels."

I nod, knowing I've hit a dead end. "I understand," I say, trying to hide my frustration. "Thank you for your time."

As I turn to leave, my mind is buzzing with questions. Song has family? Why isn't this in any official record? And why are they in a mental hospital?

I step out into the sunlight, making a call to the local police office responsible for this area right way. There's far more to Song Mi-kyung's story than I ever imagined. And somehow, I need to uncover the truth hidden behind these hospital walls.