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

Chapter 138: The Grief

I stand rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed on Choi. The implications of Lee's death unfold in my thoughts like a sinister tapestry. This was no random act of violence; it bears all the hallmarks of Choi's meticulous planning. The timing is too perfect, the circumstances too convenient.

Choi's presence here, his cryptic words, and now this news - it all coalesces into a clear, chilling message. He knows. He knows about my investigation, about the documents, about everything I've uncovered. This visit isn't just a coincidence; it's a warning.

The unspoken threat hangs heavy in the air between us. What happened to Lee could easily happen to me if I continue down this path. Choi's eyes, cold and calculating, seem to say, "Back off, or you're next."

I watch as Choi deliberately wipes his mouth with a napkin, his movements slow and precise. He stands up, reaching into his pocket to pull out a wallet. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tosses some bills onto the table - more than enough to cover the meal and then some.

"Thank you for the excellent meal," he says, his voice pleasant, as if we'd just shared a friendly dinner. "Your grandmother's reputation is well-deserved."

He turns and walks towards the door, his steps unhurried, confident. I remain frozen, watching his retreating back. The magnitude of what's just transpired washes over me in waves.

Suddenly, I realize I can't let him leave like this. I have to say something, do something. I can't let him think he's won, that I'm cowed by his implicit threats.

I lurch into motion, my feet carrying me towards the door. "Choi!" I call out, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. "Wait!"

I'm just a few steps from the door when a loud bang echoes through the restaurant. The sound is jarring, out of place in the quiet evening atmosphere.

I whirl around, my heart seizing in my chest. There, on the floor near the corner where she'd been watching TV, lies my grandmother. Her body is crumpled, one arm outstretched as if reaching for support that isn't there.

"Halmeoni!" The cry tears from my throat as I rush to her side. The shock of the news, the stress of the evening - it must have been too much for her.

As I kneel beside her, checking her pulse with trembling fingers, I'm acutely aware of the restaurant door closing softly behind me. Choi is gone, slipping away in the chaos he's created.

***

In the darkened confines of my house, I sit huddled in a corner, tears streaming down my face. The silence is oppressive, broken only by my occasional sobs. Every surface, every object in this place holds memories of my grandmother, and the pain of her absence is a physical ache in my chest.

I close my eyes, and unbidden, memories flood my mind. Grandmother in the kitchen, her hands deftly shaping dumplings as she hums a tune from her youth. Her warm smile as she serves a steaming bowl of soup on a cold day. The gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder when I came home, dejected after a hard day at work.

The cruel irony of it all threatens to overwhelm me. She believed Lee was the one who killed my parents. It gave her a sense of closure, a target for her grief. But in the end, it was the shattering of that belief that broke her. The news of Lee's death, the implication that the real culprit was still out there - it was too much for her heart to bear.

I remember the weeks in the hospital, watching her fight for life. The beeping of machines, the antiseptic smell, the hushed voices of doctors - it all blurs together in a nightmarish haze. And then, the final moment when she slipped away, taking with her the last remnants of the family I once had.

Now, in the aftermath, I'm lost. The investigation that once drove me now seems hollow, meaningless in the face of this loss. What's the point of uncovering the truth if there's no one left to share it with?

Occasionally, I hear Bundy's voice trying to break through my grief. Sometimes it's a sarcastic comment, other times an attempt at motivation. But I can't bring myself to engage. The world I knew has collapsed, and I'm not sure I have the strength to rebuild it.

I pull my knees closer to my chest, feeling small and vulnerable. The documents that seemed so important just weeks ago now lie forgotten in a drawer. The truth about my parents, about Choi, about the whole corrupt system - it all pales in comparison to the gaping hole left by my grandmother's passing.

As another wave of grief washes over me, I wonder how I'll ever find the strength to move forward. The path ahead seems dark and treacherous, and for the first time in my life, I'm not sure I have the courage to face it.

***

I jolt awake, my head pounding from the excessive soju consumed the night before. The small room attached to the restaurant is dim, the air stale with the scent of alcohol and grief. Empty bottles litter the floor, a testament to my attempts to numb the pain of loss.

For a moment, I'm disoriented. Why am I here? Then it all comes flooding back - my grandmother, the restaurant, the desperate need to cling to every memory of her. I've been sleeping here, surrounded by her things, trying to feel close to her even though she's gone.

A persistent knocking cuts through my foggy thoughts. At first, I ignore it, pulling the blanket over my head. But the knocking grows louder, more insistent.

"Go away," I mutter, my voice hoarse from disuse.

The knocking continues, and then I hear a familiar voice. "Oi, Park Minjun! Are you in there? It's Han. Open up!"

Han. The name stirs something in me - a connection to the world I've been avoiding. For a moment, I consider pretending I'm not here. But Han's voice carries a note of urgency that penetrates my grief-induced haze.

Groaning, I push myself up, my body protesting every movement. I stumble towards the door, nearly tripping over bottles in my path. As I reach for the handle, I catch a glimpse of myself in a small mirror. I barely recognize the haggard, unshaven face staring back at me.

I open the door, squinting against the harsh daylight. Han stands there, his face a mix of concern and relief.

"Jesus," he mutters, taking in my disheveled appearance. "You look like hell."

I grunt in response, not trusting my voice.

Han's expression softens. "I've been trying to reach you for days. We've all been worried."

I lean against the doorframe, suddenly exhausted by this brief interaction. "I'm fine," I manage to croak out.

Han's eyes scan the room behind me, taking in the chaos. "Clearly," he says dryly. Then his tone becomes gentle.

"Look, I know you're grieving. But there are developments in the case. We need to talk."

The mention of the case stirs something in me - a flicker of the determination I once felt. But it's quickly smothered by the weight of my loss.

"The case doesn't matter anymore," I mutter.

Han's hand grips my shoulder firmly. "It does matter. Your grandmother would want you to see this through."

At the mention of my grandmother, I feel tears threatening to spill. Han's right, and I know it. But the thought of diving back into the investigation, of facing Choi and all the dangers that come with it, feels overwhelming.

Han's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. Then we'll talk."

Han's patience begins to wear thin as I continue to resist his efforts to help. I slump back onto the makeshift bed, shaking my head.

"Just leave me alone, Han. I can't do this anymore."

Something in Han snaps. His face flushes red, and he takes a step forward, towering over me.

"Enough!" he barks, his voice echoing in the small room. "I've watched you wallow in self-pity for weeks, and I'm done. It's time to wake up and face reality." Read the latest on m_v-l'e|-NovelBin.net

I blink, startled by his sudden outburst.

Han continues, his words sharp and cutting. "You think you're honoring your grandmother by drinking yourself into oblivion? By giving up on everything you've worked for? She'd be ashamed to see you like this."

The words sting, but Han doesn't let up.

"Your parents were murdered. Your grandmother died believing justice was served, only to have that ripped away. And now you're just going to let the people responsible get away with it? Is that the legacy you want to leave?"

I open my mouth to protest, but Han cuts me off.

"No, you listen. Your grandmother raised you to be strong, to fight for what's right. She supported you becoming a detective because she believed in justice. And now, when it matters most, you're turning your back on everything she stood for."

Han's voice softens slightly, but his gaze remains intense. "I get it. You're hurting. You've lost so much. But drowning yourself in soju isn't going to bring them back. It's not going to make Choi pay for what he's done."

He kneels down, meeting me at eye level. "Your grandmother didn't raise a quitter. She raised a fighter. And right now, you need to decide if you're going to honor her memory by finishing what you started, or if you're going to let her death be in vain."

The harsh truth of Han's words cuts through my fog of grief and self-pity. I feel a surge of emotions - anger, shame, determination.

Han stands up, his voice firm but encouraging. "So what's it going to be, Park? Are you going to let Choi win? Or are you going to get up, clean yourself up, and finish this fight?"

I look up at Han, seeing the mixture of frustration and concern in his eyes. For the first time in weeks, I feel a spark of my old determination flickering to life.

"You're right," I say, my voice hoarse but steadier than before. "I... I need to finish this. For my grandmother. For my parents. For justice."

Han nods, a small smile of relief crossing his face. "That's more like it. Now, let's get you back on your feet. We've got work to do."

As I slowly stand, I feel the weight of grief still heavy on my shoulders. But now, there's something else too - a renewed sense of purpose. Han's words have rekindled the fire I thought had been extinguished. It's time to face Choi and uncover the truth, no matter the cost.