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

Chapter 20: Jung (2)

As I drive away from Jung's apartment, my mind is racing with questions and possibilities. Why would he lie about his wife? What could have happened to make him feel the need to deceive me, to paint a picture of a life that doesn't seem to exist?

There are several scenarios that play out in my head. Perhaps they have already separated, their marriage crumbling under the weight of some unseen strain or conflict. Or maybe his wife has simply moved out after a particularly bad dispute, leaving Jung alone in that empty, echoing apartment.

I know that I have to tell my grandmother about my visit, about the strange and unsettling encounter with Jung. And so, with a heavy heart, I make my way back to the restaurant, steeling myself for the conversation to come.

As I walk through the door, my grandmother looks up from her work, her face etched with concern and curiosity. "How did it go?" she asks, her voice low and urgent. "Did you see Jung? Is he okay?"

I take a deep breath, my heart heavy with the weight of the truth. "I did see him," I say, my voice filled with a mix of sadness and uncertainty. "But grandmother... I think there may be something wrong. Jung's apartment, it didn't look like it was shared by two people. And when I asked about his wife, he said she was working late at the hospital.

But something about it just didn't feel right."

My grandmother's eyes widen, a look of surprise and confusion passing across her face. "That's strange," she says, her voice filled with a sudden realization. "Because Jung's wife was here just last week, with some of her colleagues from the hospital. And she seemed fine then, happy even."

If Jung's wife was here at the restaurant just about weeks ago, then why would he lie about her work schedule, about her absence from their home?

As I'm trying to wrap my head around this new information, my grandmother bustles into the kitchen, emerging a few moments later with a stack of containers filled with side dishes and homemade meals.

"Here," she says, pressing the containers into my hands. "I want you to take these to the hospital where Jung's wife works. She's always been so kind to me, and I hate to think of her working those long shifts without a proper meal."

I hesitate for a moment, feeling a sense of unease at the idea of inserting myself further into Jung's personal life. But as I look into my grandmother's eyes, I know that I can't refuse her request.

And so, with a sigh of resignation, I take the containers and head back out into the night, my mind still swirling with questions and possibilities.

As I make my way towards the local hospital, memories of my childhood come flooding back. I remember a time when this place was the pride of the neighborhood, a gleaming beacon of hope and healing in a world that often seemed cold and unforgiving.

Back then, the hospital was a grand and impressive structure, its walls lined with the latest medical devices and its halls filled with the best and brightest doctors and nurses. People would come from miles around to seek treatment here, drawn by the reputation for excellence and the promise of cutting-edge care.

But as the years passed and the neighborhood began to decline, so too did the hospital. Its once-shining facade grew dull and worn, its equipment outdated and its staff overworked and underpaid. What had once been a symbol of progress and hope had become just another reminder of the decay and neglect that seemed to permeate every corner of this forgotten corner of the city.

As I step through the doors of the hospital, I'm struck by how little has changed since those early days. The walls are still dingy and stained, the floors scuffed and worn from decades of use. The air is thick with the smell of antiseptic and sickness, a cloying odor that seems to cling to everything like a second skin.

I approach the guard stationed at the entrance, my heart heavy with the weight of my mission. "Excuse me," I say, my voice low and polite. "I'm here to see a nurse who works here. Her name is Lee So-hyun."

The guard looks up from his desk, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You'll need to check with the front desk," he says, his voice gruff and dismissive. "First floor, down the hall to your left."

I nod my thanks and make my way towards the front desk, my footsteps echoing loudly in the empty corridors. As I approach the desk, I see an older woman sitting behind it, her face lined with the weight of countless long shifts and sleepless nights.

"Excuse me," I say, my voice filled with a forced cheer that feels out of place in this somber setting. "I'm looking for Nurse Lee So-hyun. I was told she works here."

The woman looks up from her paperwork, her eyes dull and unfocused. "Lee So-hyun?" she repeats, her voice flat and emotionless. "I'm sorry, but she hasn't been in to work for about two weeks now. No call, no notice, nothing."

I feel a chill run down my spine, a sense of dread washing over me like a cold, clammy wave. "Have you tried contacting her?" I ask, my voice tight with worry. "Maybe she's just sick, or dealing with a family emergency."

The nurse shakes her head, her expression unchanging. "We've tried calling her mobile, her home phone... nothing. It's like she's just disappeared into thin air. So strange, you know? Someone like her, who always works hard and diligently, not showing up work like this."

She looks up at me, her eyes suddenly sharp and probing. "You wouldn't happen to know how to reach her, would you? If you do, please let us know. We're starting to get worried."

I swallow hard, my mind racing with the implications of her words. If Lee So-hyun has been missing for a week, if even her colleagues at the hospital don't know where she is...

Then something is wrong.