“What do you say, wouldn’t it make for a nice evening?” your friend drones on while you stare vacantly at the papers in front of you. It’s been two days since your hospital visit, and you still haven’t managed to dig up anything substantial on your prospective patient. It’s as if someone deliberately wiped him past clean. The thought is driving you mad. You’re running on two hours of sleep. All you’ve got on him are tabloid headlines and the fact that a businessman named Charles Choi has taken credit for those crimes. Every murder he’s supposedly committed remains unresolved. It sparks an insatiable curiosity in you. You pick up your car keys again and again, remind yourself to behave, then gently set them back down.
“Y/N. Hey, are you even listening?” your friend raises her voice. You startle and turn to face her. She look at you in surprise for a moment, then blurt out “For God’s sake, what’s wrong with your eyes?” Her gaze lingers uncomfortably on your face, so you avert your eyes and fix her on something else.
“Don’t you dare tell me you spent all night researching that guy” she say, leaning back and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry… he’s a crime machine. I only found out by chance in the paper this morning.”
Your eyes go wide and you hiss in frustration.
“So what,” you snap with a bitter laugh, “you sent me to some guy you know nothing about?”
“I didn’t know, I swear” she raise her hands in surrender. “Look, you can back out anytime.”
“For God’s sake, this isn’t even a case you’re qualified to handle. It’s outside your field, and if you slip up and things go legal, you won’t stand a chance. He needs someone more professional. A psychiatrist.” you say. Guilt flashes across her face under the weight of your words, and she fall silent. You draw in a deep breath and murmur to yourself, “I thought I’d dealt with every killer thanks to you, now I’m about to handle one myself.”
You haven’t been able to shake these thoughts for two days. Of course, the only solid fact you have is that the patient you’re supposed to treat allegedly committed a run of the mill murder and laundered money. But standing in front of you is someone who uses his body and, more importantly, his mind as a weapon. He exudes an energy so different you’re not sure you can handle it.
When you sit down at that table today, you’re jittery. But it’s not just nerves: it’s fear implanted deep in your psyche. Before you entered that room, warnings about his danger had burrowed into the corners of your mind, whispering that you must stay alert for any attack. That’s why you feel so on edge. Your training taught you this much.
Yet the real test begins the moment you open the door and step inside. You’re still tense when you sit down, your body is afraid even if your mind isn’t ready to admit it. Then he lifts his head and meets your gaze, and your fear dissolves into plain apprehension. It’s strange. Even when you speak, you sense that if he has a hypnotic trance ability, he’s chosen not to use it on you. He prefers conversation. Maybe it unsettles you so much because you left that room physically and mentally unscathed.
According to Mr. Choi, every doctor who’s sat at that table suffers mental damage; none of them remember events clearly, and they recall that entire time as a blank. But you remember everything. Every detail is etched into your mind as if recorded for posterity: his facial features, the knife scar above his eyes, the blunt way he speaks, even the tiny wounds on his lip. Why didn’t he use that same technique on you? Why, unlike everyone else, did he allow you to leave with your memory intact? Perhaps you’re overthinking. Maybe it’s simply that you can’t imagine someone so adept at gestures and expressions being mentally ill. Even though you haven’t been part of his treatment, you’ve witnessed countless patients and mental disorders.
You don’t know how long you stayed over those files, or how many times you Googled “Park Jong Gun.” When you finally look up from the papers, it’s already three in the afternoon. You have to get ready to leave, but you’re bone‑tired.
Before you find your office, you stop in the kitchen to brew a bitter coffee, hoping it will wake you up. As you place the mug on the counter and head back, your friend emerges from the bathroom, towel wrapped around their head, phone in hand. The moment she see you, her lips part, and one hand goes back to pat down damp hair.
“Choi texted” she say, twisting her hair absently “He says thanks, and by the way, didn’t you give him your number? He asked whether you’d show up.”
“Oh, I completely forgot,” you say, rubbing your forehead.
Time is running late, so you dash through a quick shower, dress, and head out without another thought. Your friend is cooking, warning that you’ll pass out if you go hungry. She offer you a snack, but you plant a quick kiss on her cheek and slip out the door. The drive is agonizing. You feel like you’ll get sick from stress. You turn on the radio to calm down, but even your favorite band’s best song does nothing. You’re still on edge, still consumed by anxiety. A bitter taste lingers in your mouth, like mud. Your stomach knots in a way you can’t ignore and you regret not eating when you had the chance.
“I’m here to see Mr. Choi.” you say to one of the nuns at the entrance. “Is he in his office?”
“Oh yes,” she replies, setting down a tray, “Please, go right in. He’s expecting you.”
You smile and follow her gesture down the hallway, expecting to see patients in the corridors—but they’re all in their rooms. Passing a few doors, you hear screams that make you shiver, but you force yourself to stay calm. At last you reach the familiar door. You nod to the nun, who steps away. You knock and wait. When you hear a voice from inside, you slip in and greet Mr. Choi, who’s standing to welcome you.
“Dr. Y/N,” he says eagerly. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“Hello…” you reply with a faint smile. “I needed to do thorough research before coming. I apologize for the delay.”
“Oh no,” he says, eyes gleaming, “It’s your job. I should be the one apologizing for doubting you.”
“Then,” you say with a laugh, “May I?”
“Of course, please,” he says, motioning you toward the door with his left hand. His expensive watch catches your eye. You nod gratefully and step into the corridor with him. As you pass each corner, you realize you’ve already committed every twist and turn to memory—as if you’ve worked here for years and could navigate alone without his help.
The corridor feels icy compared to the waiting room. Your palms are soaked with sweat, and a cold dampness trickles down your back, soaking the back of your shirt. Unnoticed, you brush your forehead with the back of your hand and fix your gaze on the path ahead. When you arrive at his door, Director Choi says, “I’ll leave you here,” and walks away without looking back. Your hand finds the doorknob, and you hesitate should you turn it? You stand there, weighing your options, until a sudden surge of courage prompts you to push it open and slip inside.
The room is even colder than the corridor. He stands there exactly as you left him, hands folded in front.
His head is bowed, yet he speaks as if he sees you standing there. It’s unnerving. You shiver. He even chuckles softly, as though this moment has been rehearsed.
“Are you cold?” he asks, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His hair, longer and slicked back since you last saw him, frames a face that never blinks. When he finally does blink, you notice how his lashes move as one unit in a fraction of a second.
“If you’re cold, we can warm up” he offers.
“You must be cold,” you reply with a smirk. “Since you asked.”
“I am cold” he says, deadpan.
His unexpected honesty throws you off. You want to think he’s mocking you, but his tone is sincere. The room is frigid, the corridor just as much. The chill of your shirt pressed against your skin sends waves through your body. He’s been trapped in this icy cell for days, yet you suspect it’s not the room that chills him. Just like his handsome face contrasts with his crimes.
“I requested that they remove the handcuffs,” you say, trying to change the subject. But a sharp pang stabs at you. Are you really here to work with a killer? “Looks like my request was denied.”
“Oh,” he laughs, showing you the scars on his lips, “Handcuffs, you say? How did I earn this trust?”
“There’s no trust here,” you say, denying it outright. “I’m simply trying to build a bridge for effective communication.”
“But they don’t agree with you, Doctor,” he says, grinning as he shakes his head. “They won’t even take me to the bathroom. If you want them to do anything for you next time, ask for the litter box. Someone’s bound to soil this place.”
“Then,” you say, forcing yourself to ignore the pain in your chest, “they don’t feed you either, right?”
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” he replies, rolling his tongue, “but the service here is zero.”
His words strike your conscience. You force your face to remain impassive. There’s a killer in front of you but your mind is consumed by the staff’s cruelty.
“Anyway,” you say, pulling a couple of files from your briefcase, “let’s begin.”
“Ah yes,” he says, leaning forward, “but tell me Doctor, does any of this feel right to you? Look at me.. am I anything like them?”
You pause and wait, watching his next move. He leans in as far as the handcuffs allow, adrenaline and stress ratcheting up your heartbeat until you hear it pounding in your ears.
“Do you think” he murmurs, tapping his handcuffs against his head, “this place is more complicated than all those pictures you’ll show me?”
He fixes his gaze on you, inches from your face. You can feel every contour of your skin under his stare.
His words catch you off guard. Your eyes widen, your lips part. You watch him bite his lip as if tasting the words he just spoke.
“If you let me kiss you now,” he whispers, tilting your chin toward his lips, voice thick with desire, “I’d lock these bars myself, and leave the key between your fingers… who knows?”
There’s barely three and a half centimeters between you. You feel his warm breath on your lips like an alarm in your head. You don’t move, God knows why. If he’d given you a chance to step back, you might have left your heart on that table and run. His lips so close, you can’t think straight. He inches closer still.
You steel yourself, but the ringing in your ears grows louder, and he asks, “How can you be so beautiful?”
You’re frozen. Completely frozen. You’re rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. The session has gone off course, and you haven’t even touched your files. Your thoughts aren’t about therapy anymore. They’re about the ringing in your ears, the distance between you and his scarred chest, the warmth of his lips. You’re thinking of the red in his lashes instead of the blood that once dried there, of the perfect arch of his brows instead of the cut beneath them. You’re focused on the veins swelling from his wrists rather than the cuffs that caused them.
You don’t know what happens next. Summoning the last ounce of courage you have left, you pull back and furrow your brow. He watches you, his half smile deepening.
You leap to your feet so fast the chair scrapes across the floor, echoing through the empty room. You don’t break eye contact as you stand. You spin and fling the door open, every movement under his intense scrutiny, then rush into the corridor without losing your composure.
“Could someone come in here, please?” your voice slices through the silent hallway like a bullet. It’s not long before a guard appears, baton in hand, sprinting from the corridor’s end, breathless as he reaches you.
“Is something wrong, Ms. Y/N?” he pants.
“Oh..” you say, forcing a smile to ease his concern “I just need one thing.”
“I’m listening, ma’am,” he says, catching his breath.
“I’d like the key to that patient’s handcuffs,” you say, smiling faintly. “I assume you have it.”
“But Ms. Y/N,” he replies, suspicion and worry etched on his face, “He’s a convict. I don’t have the authority for that.”
“It’s part of his treatment,” you say, still smiling. “Before I leave, I’ll speak with Mr. Choi. Don’t worry, I won’t put you in a bind.”
He hesitates, studying you with doubt. Then he exhales deeply and, from the keyring at his belt, produces a small key and hands it over reluctantly.
You take it with a quiet “Thank you” and watch him disappear down the corridor. Then you slip back into the room and meet the man’s eyes again, he’s sitting exactly where you left him. He watches you, trying to anticipate your next move, glancing often at the door behind you. He must suspect you called someone. You step forward closer and closer until you’re standing at his feet, just as you did when you brought him water days ago. He watches, curious, as you crouch beside him.You place your hand gently on his handcuffs, and your nerves tingle from the contact. It’s as if his energy pulses through you, sending a shock to your brain. Without hesitation, you insert the key into the lock and turn it. The cuffs fall open with a sharp click, freeing his hands with a satisfying finality.
He never takes his eyes off you he follows every move, every twitch of your face. When you step back, gathering your files, you notice the bruises where the cuffs once bit into his wrists.
