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

I dig deeper, searching for any hint of a connection between the siblings that might shed light on the investigation. But there\'s nothing.

With a heavy sigh, I lean back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes. This lead is a dead end, just another false hope in a case that seems to be nothing but dead ends and false hopes.

I report my findings to Inspector Han, who listens with a grim expression. "It\'s natural for a sister to write to her younger brother," he says, shaking his head. "This doesn\'t give us anything new to work with. We\'ll have to keep monitoring Yuri and hope for a break."

Days turn into weeks as the surveillance drags on, the tedium broken only by the occasional flurry of activity as Yuri goes about her daily life. But no matter how closely we watch, no matter how many hours we spend poring over the evidence, we can\'t seem to find any solid link between her and the murders.

Just as I\'m starting to feel the frustration and exhaustion taking their toll, the news breaks like a thunderclap across the city. Another murder, another body left like a grotesque work of art in the shadows of Seoul\'s streets.

I race to the scene with my heart in my throat, the dread and anger churning in my gut. The victim is a young woman, her body contorted into an unnatural pose, her blank eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky. It\'s the same MO, the same twisted signature that has haunted my dreams for months.

As I stand over the body, watching the forensics team work in grim silence, I can feel Bundy\'s presence in the back of my mind, his voice a mocking whisper.

"Looks like you\'re chasing your tail, Park," he taunts, his words dripping with false sympathy. "While you were busy watching Yuri, the real killer was out there, waiting to strike again."

I clench my fists, my jaw tight with rage and frustration. He\'s right - we\'ve been so focused on Yuri that we\'ve let the real culprit slip through our fingers. And now, another innocent life has been lost, another family shattered by the cruel hand of a monster.

As the frustration and desperation mount with each passing day, the team and I come to a grim realization: we need to take a closer look at Yuri\'s home. While the latest murder doesn\'t match any of the paintings she created at the community center, we can\'t rule out the possibility that there may be other, undiscovered works hiding in the shadows of her private life.

With the search warrant clutched tightly in our hands, a grim determination etched on our faces, we approach Yuri\'s apartment. The air feels thick and heavy, as if the very building itself is holding its breath, waiting for the horrors that surely lie within. As we cross the threshold, the door swinging open with an ominous creak, we step into a world that seems to defy all reason and sanity.

The moment we enter, it\'s like being transported into a nightmare made manifest. Every room, every inch of space, is a twisted gallery of Yuri\'s darkest imaginings, a hellish tapestry of pain, fear, and madness. The walls are alive with grotesque figures, their bodies contorted into impossible angles, their faces frozen in eternal agony.

Some are mere skeletons, their bones picked clean by unseen horrors, while others are bloated and distended, their flesh rotting away before our very eyes.

The colors are vivid and sickening, a palette of blood reds, bile greens, and bruise purples that seem to pulsate and writhe in the flickering light. The brushstrokes are violent and erratic, as if the artist\'s hand was guided by some unseen force, a manic energy that pours from every canvas like a physical presence.

Even the most mundane objects are not spared from Yuri\'s twisted vision. The kitchen table is a gory altar, its surface drenched in crimson and littered with the shattered remains of human skulls. The living room sofa is a bloated, pustulent mass, its cushions pulsing with a sickening life of their own.

The very air seems to hum with a malevolent energy, a palpable sense of wrongness that sets our teeth on edge and sends shivers down our spines.

As the team spreads out, searching for any painting that might match the latest victim\'s grisly pose, I find myself drawn to the kitchen table. Amidst the scattered art supplies and half-finished sketches, a small detail catches my eye: a pair of scissors, lying atop a pile of envelopes and scraps of paper.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Bundy\'s voice whispers in my mind, a note of cruel amusement in his tone. "Looks like our little artist has been busy with more than just painting."

I nod silently, my gaze fixed on the envelopes. They\'re the same plain, white type that Yuri used to mail her letter to Hosu, her younger brother in Busan. But what draws my attention are the scraps of paper scattered across the table, the edges jagged and uneven, as if cut in a hurry.

With a growing sense of unease, I reach out and pick up one of the scraps, rubbing it between my fingers. The texture is glossy, the surface slightly tacky - not paper at all, but the unmistakable feel of a printed photograph.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, the realization hits me. The cut-up photos, the envelopes, the mail to her brother... it all falls into place with a sickening clarity.

Before I can voice my suspicions, one of my colleagues calls out from across the apartment. "I found it - the painting that matches the latest victim\'s pose. It\'s an exact match."

But even as the team gathers around, their faces grim with the confirmation of Yuri\'s involvement, I\'m already heading for the door, my heart pounding with a new sense of urgency.

"I have to go to Busan," I say, my voice tight with barely contained emotion.

"There\'s something I need to check."