Chapter Text
Korea National Police Agency
February 12, 1978
“Be very careful with Edwards. That one is batshit crazy.” Juhoon didn’t raise his voice–he didn’t need to anyway. His tone had that administrative calm reserved for disasters that had already happened.
“Dr. Zhao will go over the physical procedure you use to deal with him. Don't ever deviate from it. Do not deviate from it for even one iota for any reason. Do you understand, Seonghyeon?”
“Mhm.” Seonghyeon said.
“If Edwards talks to you at all, he'll just be trying to figure you out. It's the kind of curiosity that makes a snake look in a bird's nest.” Juhoon takes a sip of his Americano.
“We both know you have to do a little back-and-forth in interviews, but don’t tell him any specifics about yourself. You don't want any of your personal facts in his head. You know what he did to Ahn Keonho.”
"I read about it when it happened." Seonghyeon murmured.
"I’m sure you did. He gutted him with a linoleum knife when he caught up with his antics. It's a wonder Keonho didn't die. He tore a nurse up in the asylum. Do your job, just don't ever forget what he is."
"And what is he exactly, Officer Kim? Do you know?"
"He's a monster. Beyond that, nobody can say for sure. Maybe you'll find out; I didn't pick you out of a hat, Seonghyeon.” Juhoon smiled at him, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You asked me a couple of interesting questions. The Director will see your own report over your signature—if it's clear and tight and organized. I decide that. And I will have it by Sunday."
Seoul Institution for Clinical Psychiatry
February 13, 1978
“You are aware of the prices he comes with, correct? Let alone the attitude.” James halted, eyes flicking up at Seonghyeon for final confirmation.
“I’m aware, Mr. Zhao.” He confirmed, grabbing his tablet and pressing send on the email for him. “He’s our last option.” He whispered, pushing the tablet back at him as he took it.
“Is Dr. Edwards really worth all the trouble?” Juhoon questioned, following James, who started walking away.
“Yes,” James said without hesitation. “Yes, he is.”
“Earlier, you said he’s sedated regularly?” Seonghyeon asked.
“His aggression is far too dangerous otherwise—like a dog without a bone.”
“What is he sedated with?” Seonghyeon tilts his head.
“Six milligrams of Droperidol and six milligrams of Midazolam.”
Seonghyeon furrowed his brow, unimpressed. That much? No wonder they can’t get anything out of him, he’s basically unconscious. Is that much really necessary?
“Switch it to two milligrams each, and I’ll sign.” He suggested, grabbing the pen and awaiting an answer.
. . .
Seonghyeon flinched as the first of the heavy steel gates clashed shut behind him and the bolt shot home.
James walked slightly ahead, shoes clicking down the white institutional corridor in an atmosphere of Lysol, the thick scent of antiseptic in the air you could almost taste it, distant slammings echoing from places Seonghyeon didn’t want to imagine.
Seonghyeon was angry at himself for letting James put his hand in his bag and briefcase, and he stepped hard on the anger so that he could concentrate.
It was fine. Everything’s okay.
He felt his control solid beneath him, like a good gravel bottom in a fast current.
"Edwards is a considerable nuisance," James said over his shoulder. "It takes the security guards at least ten minutes a day to remove the staples from the publications he receives. We tried to eliminate or reduce his subscriptions, but he wrote a brief and the court overruled us.”
James shakes his head, “The volume of his personal mail used to be enormous. Thankfully, it's dwindled since he's been overshadowed by other freaks in the news. For a while it seemed that every little student doing a master's thesis in psychology wanted something from Edwards in it. The medical journals still publish him, but it's just for the freak value of his byline."
They passed under another caged light.
"I think he did a really good piece on surgical addiction in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry." Seonghyeon said.
"You did, did you? We tried to study Edwards. He is so lucid, so perceptive; he's trained in psychiatry and yet he's also a mass murderer. He seemed cooperative at first. We thought, 'here's an opportunity to make a landmark study'—it's so incredibly rare to get one alive."
"To get one what alive?"
"A pure sociopath, that's obviously what he is. But he's impenetrable, much too sophisticated for the standard tests. And plus, he hates us. He thinks I'm his nemesis. Juhoon’s very clever isn't he?—using you on Edwards.”
Seonghyeon stares at him. "What do you mean, Dr. Zhao?"
''A pretty boy to 'turn him on,' I believe you call it. I don't believe Edwards has seen a boy this pretty—he may have gotten a glimpse of one of the cleaning people. We generally keep twinks out of there. They're trouble in detention."
Seonghyeon was almost offended. "I graduated from Seoul National University with honors, Doctor. It's not a charm school."
"Then you should be able to remember the rules: Do not reach through the bars, do not touch the bars. You pass him nothing but soft paper. No pens, no pencils. He has his own felt-tipped pens some of the time. The paper you pass him must be free of staples, paper clips, or pins. Items are only passed to him through the sliding food carrier. Items come back out through the sliding food carrier. No exceptions. Do not accept anything he attempts to hold out to you through the barrier. Do you understand me?"
"I understand." They had passed through two more gates and left the natural light behind. Now they were beyond the wards where inmates can mix together, down in the region where there can be no windows and no mixing. The hallway lights are covered with heavy grids, like the lights in the engine rooms of ships.
James paused beneath one. When their footfalls stopped, Seonghyeon could hear somewhere beyond the wall the ragged end of a voice ruined by shouting.
"You won’t ever find him outside his cell without wearing full restraints and a mouthpiece," James said. "I'm going to show you why. He was fairly cooperative for the first year after he was committed, practically a good boy. Security around him was slightly relaxed—this was under the previous administration.”
James pauses, “On the afternoon of July 8, 1976, he complained of chest pain and he was taken to the dispensary. His restraints were removed to make it easier to give him an electrocardiogram. When the nurse bent over him, he did this to him."
James handed him a dog-eared photograph. The horror wasn’t the injury, but the neatness of the stitching, the body embroidered like a sick present. Seonghyeon handed it back without comment. "The doctors managed to save one of his eyes. Edwards was hooked up to the monitors the entire time. He broke his jaw to get at his tongue. Do you notice the strange thing? His pulse never got over eighty-five. Even when he tore out his tongue."
Seonghyeon didn't know which was worse, the photograph or James’ attention as he gleaned his face with fast grabby eyes. he thought of a thirsty chicken pecking tears off his face.
"I keep him in here," James said, and pushed a button beside heavy double doors of security glass. A hulking security guard let them into the block beyond.
Seonghyeon made a tough decision and stopped just inside the doors, turning towards James.
"Dr. Zhao, we really need these test results. If Edwards feels you're his enemy—if he's fixed on you, just as you've said—we might have more luck if I approached him by myself. What do you think?"
Zhao's cheek twitched. "That's perfectly fine with me. Honestly, you should have suggested that in my office. I could have sent a security guard with you and saved the time."
He paused, "I could have suggested it there if you'd briefed me there, but here we are." Seonghyeon said, almost scoffing.
James gave him a once-over, sneer in place. "I don't expect to see you again anytime soon—Jay, when he's finished with Edwards, ring for someone to bring him out." James left without looking at him again.
Now there was only the big impassive security guard and the soundless clock behind him and his wire mesh cabinet with the Mace and restraints, mouthpiece and tranquilizer gun. A wall rack held a long pipe device with a U on the end for pinioning the violent to the wall.
The security guard was looking at him. "Dr. Zhao told you didn’t he? Not to touch the bars?" His voice was both high and hoarse.
"Yeah, he told me."
"Okay then. It's past the others, the last cell on the right. You’ll know it’s his. Stay toward the middle of the corridor as you go down, and don't mind anything. You can bring him his mail while you’re at it, get off on the right foot." The security guard seemed privately amused. "You just put it in the tray and let it roll through. If the tray's inside, you can pull it back with the cord, or he can send it back. He can't reach you where the tray stops outside." The security guard gave him two magazines, their loose pages spilling out, three newspapers and several opened letters.
The corridor was about thirty yards long, with cells on both sides. Some were padded cells with an observation window, long and narrow like an archery slit in the center of the door. Others were standard prison cells, with a wall of bars opening on the corridor.
Seonghyeon was aware of the figures in the cells, but he tried not to look at them. He was more than halfway down when a voice hissed, "I can smell your cunt from here, fag."
Well, fuck you too.
He gave no sign that he had heard it, and went on. The lights were on in the last cell. He moved toward the left side of the corridor to see into it as he approached, knowing his heeled Chelsea boots announced his presence.
"Dr. Edwards." his voice was calm.
Martin looked up from his reading, glancing in his direction. Seonghyeon held his gaze, obviously intrigued. For a steep second he thought his gaze hummed, but it was only his blood he heard.
"My name is Eom Seonghyeon. Do you mind if I talk with you?" He was the picture of politeness. Courtesy implicit in his distance and his tone.
Martin didn’t react, not in a meaningful way, at least. His eyes merely traced Seonghyeon’s face with snail-slow movements, clearly drugged. Martin came and went a measured distance closer to the bars.
Interest piqued, Martin slouches forward so he’s eye–level with him. The hair on Seonghyeon’s forearms rose and pressed against his sleeves. “Hyeon?” Martin, completely unbothered, examines his facial features.
Today’s no good, he thinks. Seonghyeon turns and leaves.
. . .
“You sedated him far too much.” His voice cut through the hallway. “Your current dosage turned him into a zombie.”
They turned a corner. Jay nearly tripped trying to match his speed.
“There’s no wonder you weren’t getting any results. He can’t even speak.”
They arrive at James’ office.
“Were you the one who prescribed that dosage?” Seonghyeon turned, cold and sharp.
James lifts a brow.
“Yes—”
“Then I have no need to hear more from you.” His tone snapped like a cold blade. “And stay out of my work.”
. . .
He clicks on the earliest recording of surveillance footage.
Day 0000
No date on the file. Martin stood in the center of the intake room, wearing the usual institute uniform. White shirt and white pants, loose around the neck. No restraints, no straitjacket. Seemingly normal.
But nothing about the figure on screen felt normal. Seonghyeon watched as Martin paced the room, head tilted up, lips moving in words the camera couldn’t capture. A guard stepped in—Jay, Seonghyeon recognized.
The guard spoke. Martin didn’t.
Then—movement. So fast Seonghyeon’s eyes flicked wider. Martin lunged at the guard with a feral grin, hands finding the man’s throat in a single, fluid motion. Jay slammed into the wall, legs kicking. Other staff rushed in, prying Martin off with visible struggle.
The screen flickered as Martin laughed. Silent, but clear.
Seonghyeon scrolled to the bottom of the folder, clicking the most recent incident.
Day 0038
02/10, 5:05 PM
The cell was the same besides the walls being heavily reinforced now, the jacket being a better model. Two guards tried to move him for a scheduled evaluation.
Seonghyeon watched the chaotic struggle unfold. Martin launched himself between them like he was weightless, using the wall to push off, kicking one guard to the floor. Even bound, he writhed and contorted with an unsettling flexibility, like his body operated on no human limitation.
When they finally pinned him, Martin’s head turned toward the camera.
Seoul Institution for Clinical Psychiatry
February 14, 1978
Martin lunged the moment Seonghyeon came into view, a flurry of violence and excitement all at once. Metal restraints snapped taut, stopping him before he could crash into Seonghyeon’s chest.
“Fuck!” The cuff jerked him back with a harsh clank; his breath hitched as he fell to the floor, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a grin.
“Look at you,” Martin purred, voice dipping low as he got back up onto his feet. “Tiny little thing. They’re actually letting pretty boys walk right into my room now. You must be suicidal.”
"Dr. Edwards, we have a hard problem in psychological profiling. I want to ask you for your help."
Martin leaned forward until the chain went taut, eyes feverish. “What’s wrong, doll? Are you shy? Come closer. I want to see you properly.”
Seonghyeon stalked forward, standing just outside Martin’s reach.
"So, you want my help? That’s cute. You’re Juhoon’s, right? Is the 'we' you’re referring to Behavioral Science at KNPA? It’s obvious. I can smell him on you."
“Can you?”
Martin flashes a Cheshire grin, “No.” He says, feral and hungry.
“Yesterday, I told you my name. Can you remember, Doctor?”
Martin blinks once. Twice.
"Eom Seonghyeon.” He tilts his head. “Do you mind if I see your credentials?"
At this, he was taken aback. He hadn't expected this. "I showed them already—back at the office."
"You mean you showed them to Zhao Yufan, Ph.D.?" Martin said with slight disdain and a brow raised in question.
"Yes."
"And have you seen his credentials?" He says with a scoff.
Seonghyeon pauses, "No."
"Hm. The academic ones don't make extensive reading, I can tell you. Did you meet JJ? Isn't he charming? Which of them would you rather talk with? James or JJ? J1 or J2?"
Seonghyeon mulls it over for a second, "On the whole, I'd say JJ."
Martin stares at him blankly.
“I asked Dr. Zhao to modify your dosage. Tell me Martin, are you experiencing any shortness of breath?”
Hearing his name, Martin tilted his head, blonde hair falling into his eyes, mask shifting slightly with the motion.
“Not unless you’re trying to take my breath away.”
Seonghyeon stares at him with a deadpan expression.
“Cheesy?” Martin asks with a goofy smile.
“It wasn’t very good.”
Like a thunderbolt, Martin suddenly straightens. "Seonghyeon, enlighten me, why should I trust you? You could just be another reporter James let in for money. I think I'm entitled to see your credentials."
Seonghyeon held back on rolling his eyes. "Here," he held up his laminated ID card, “now stop being a diva.”
"But, I can't read it from this far, Seonghyeon. Send it through. I’ll grab it." He says with an impassive face, waiting for Seonghyeon to take the bait.
"No, I can't."
"Because it's hard?" Martin smirks.
"Yes."
"Alright then, pretty boy. If you’re so cautious, ask Jay."
The security guard came and considered. "Dr. Edwards, I'll let this come through. But if you don't return it when I ask you to—if we have to bother everybody and secure you to get it—then shit is going to go down, you hear me? If you upset me, you'll have to stay bundled up until I feel better toward you. Meals through the tube, dignity pants changed twice a day—all the works. And I'll hold your mail for a week, maybe more. Got it?"
"Of course. I wouldn’t dream of it, Jay." He says with his deceptively innocent doe eyes.
"Now then," Martin said, sitting sideways at his table to face him, "what did Kai say to you?"
"Who?"
"Kai, in the cell down there. He said something to you yesterday. I heard him whining like a little bitch. What did he say?"
"He said, 'I can smell your cunt."' He didn’t elaborate on the rest.
Martin observes him. "I see. Well, I can’t. You use Ceramide Ato Skin cream, and sometimes you wear Jo Malone, was that London Wood Sage & Sea Salt? But not today. Today, you don’t smell like anything in particular. Eom Seonghyeon, tell me, how do you feel about what Kai said?"
"He's hostile for reasons I couldn't know. It's too bad. He's hostile to people, people are hostile to him. It's a never-ending loop."
"Are you hostile to him, Seonghyeon?" Martin asks curiously.
"I'm sorry he's disturbed. Beyond that, he's background noise. How did you know about the perfume?"
"I can smell it from your bag when you got your card out. Your bag is lovely, by the way." He says with a small smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
"Thank you."
"You brought your best bag to meet me today, didn't you?" His grin widens.
"—Yes." It was true. He had saved for the classic casual handbag, and it was the best item he owned.
"It's much better than your shoes." Martin scans his body, and Seonghyeon suddenly feels self-conscious.
"Did you do the drawings on your walls, Doctor?" Seonghyeon changed the subject.
“No, Jay did them.” Martin said, rolling his eyes. "Do you really think I have the capacity to call in a decorator, Seonghyeon? Of course, I drew them." He says with a furrowed brow.
Seonghyeon took a deep, calming breath, "The one over the sink, is that Europe?"
"It's Florence. That's the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo, seen from the Belvedere." A proud look takes over his face.
"Did you do it from memory, all the detail? That’s very impressive."
Martin squints, "Are you patronizing me, right now? Memory is all that I have, Seonghyeon, instead of a view, if you couldn't tell," he said sardonically.
"The other one, is that a crucifixion? The middle cross is empty.”
"It's Golgotha after the Deposition. Crayon and Magic Marker on butcher paper. It's what the thief who had been promised Paradise really got, when they took the paschal lamb away."
"And what is that?" Seonghyeon points towards another drawing.
"His legs, broken of course. Anyway, how is Keonho? How does he look?" Martin diverts the topic, leaning forward.
"I don't know any Keonhos."
"Yes, you do, Eom Seonghyeon. You know who he is, I can almost smell it. He’s Kim Juhoon’s boytoy. The one before you. How does his face look?"
"Doctor, I've never seen him before." Seonghyeon lies.
"This is called 'cutting up a few old touches,' Seonghyeon, you don't mind, do you?" There is a beat of silence.
"Actually, instead of that, we could touch up a few old cuts here. I brought—"
"No—no. Seonghyeon, what did you do just now? Never use wit in a segue.”
“What—”
“Understanding a witticism and replying to it makes your subject perform a fast, detached scan that is inimical to mood. Mood is what everything depends on. You were doing so well—my Hyeon, you were polite, open to politeness in return. You built trust. It is on the plank of mood that we proceed.”
Seonghyeon stays silent.
“You were doing fine in the beginning, you'd established trust by telling the embarrassing truth about the asshole next door, Kai, and then you come in with a ham-handed segue into your questionnaire, It just won't do." Martin said, going on a spiel, uttering fifty words per millisecond.
After a beat, he calms down, "Seonghyeon, have you read any of the papers coming out of Behavioral Science recently?"
"I have."
"So have I. The KNPA stupidly refuses to send me the Law Enforcement Bulletin, but I get it from secondhand dealers and I have the News from Jay, and the psychiatric journals. They're dividing the people who practice serial murder into two groups—organized and disorganized. What do you think of that? I want to hear your thoughts, my Hyeon."
"It's... fundamental, they evidently—"
"Simplistic is the word you want.” Martin cuts in.
“In fact, most psychology is childish, Seonghyeon, and that practiced in Behavioral Science is on a level with phrenology. Psychology doesn't get very good material to start with.” He shakes his head.
“Go to any college psychology department and look at the students and faculty: ham radio enthusiasts and other personality-deficient buffs. Hardly the best brains on the campus: Organized and disorganized—a real bottom-feeder thought of that."
"How would you change the classification then, Doctor?"
"I wouldn't." Martin said.
"Speaking of publications, I read your pieces on surgical addiction and left-side, right-side facial displays."
"Yes, they were first-rate," Martin said, smug.
"I thought so, and so did Juhoon. He pointed them out to me. That's one reason he's anxious for you—"
"The great Juhoon the Stoic is anxious? He must be busy if he's recruiting help from the KNPA."
"He is, and he wants—"
"If we are going to talk about this, my Hyeon, I have to have something on account. Quid pro quo. I tell you things, and you tell me." Martin interrupts him, striking a deal.
"Alright. Go on," Seonghyeon said, indulging him.
He had to wait a full minute before Martin said, "A caterpillar becomes a pupa in a chrysalis. Then it emerges; comes out of its secret changing room as the beautiful imago. Do you know what an imago is, Seonghyeon?"
"It’s an adult winged insect." Seonghyeon said, deadpan.
"But what else?" Martin looks at him, eyes sparkling with glee.
Seonghyeon shook his head.
"It's a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of the parent buried in the unconscious from infancy and bound with infantile affect.” Martin makes a flourish with his hands.
“The word comes from the wax portrait busts of their ancestors the ancient Romans carried in funeral processions—even Juhoon must see some significance in the insect chrysalis."
"Nothing to jump on except checking the entomology journals' subscription lists against known sex offenders in the descriptor index."
"The significance of the chrysalis is change. Worm into butterfly, or moth. Keonho thinks he wants to change who he is. He's making himself a boy suit out of real boys. Hence, the large victims—he has to have things that fit. The number of victims suggests he may see it as a series of molts. He's doing this in a two-story house, did you find out why he does it in two stories?"
"Keonho—for a while, he was hanging the bodies on the stairs." Seonghyeon said pensively.
"Exactly. You are very smart, my Hyeon." Martin flashes a sweet smile.
"Dr. Edwards, there’s no correlation that I ever saw between body dysmorphia and violence— they are passive types, usually."
"That's true, Seonghyeon. Sometimes you see a tendency to surgical addiction—cosmetically, BDD is hard to satisfy—but that's about all. Keonho is not a real BDD. You're very close to the truth, Seonghyeon, to the way you’re going to catch him, do you realize that?"
Seonghyeon just stares at him.
"No. No, I don’t."
Martin smiles.
Seoul Institution for Clinical Psychiatry
February 21, 1978
After a week had passed, Seonghyeon had tried rewarding cooperation. Calm praise when Martin answered, verbal acknowledgment of effort, a technique many patients responded to. The brain liked reinforcement; it gravitated toward it without knowing why. Martin tilted his head the first time Seonghyeon did it, as if listening for something beneath the words.
Martin sits up the second Seonghyeon appears, "Any news on Keonho, doll?" His eyes lit up in excitement, "Jay wouldn't tell me anything." He pouts.
No, he thinks. Instead, Seonghyeon says, "He's in Russia, up in Siberia."
Martin squints, examining his expression, "Russia?"
"Yes."
He can feel Martin's gaze observing him. He tries to restrict his movements, breathe normally, blink normally, but there's only so much you can do. Then, almost inaudibly, he heard, "You're lying to me."
Seonghyeon shoots a look at him, scheming, "How so?"
"The likes of Ahn Keonho would rather die than go to Siberia, that place is one of the most sparsely populated regions in the world. How is he supposed to have his daily killing spree?" Martin rolls his eyes, "Plus, he hates the cold."
He hates the cold?
“Very unfortunate that his emotional problems got the better of him. I thought he was a very promising young officer. Do you ever have any problems, my Hyeon?”
“No.”
“Of course you don't.”
Seonghyeon felt that Martin was looking through to the back of his skull. His attention felt like a fly walking around in there. “I'm glad you came here, doll. All my previous callers are second-rate clinical psychiatrists from silo colleges in nowhere land. They like to protect their tenure with pieces in the journals.”
"Officer Kim showed me your article on surgical addiction in The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry, Doctor.”
Martin held his gaze, intrigued, “And?”
Seonghyeon smirked, “It was very interesting, even to a layman.”
“Even to a layman...interesting terminology, my Hyeon,” Martin said.
“That will be all for today, Doctor. This was very useful information,” Seonghyeon said once, pen hovering over paper, the click of an ink cartridge, then scribbling. He'll have to report this to Juhoon. “You've been a good boy.”
Martin pauses, “Eom Seonghyeon, do you really think that works on me?” he asked, breathless with amusement, leaning forward as far as the straitjacket allowed.
Seonghyeon met his gaze evenly. “It’s a standard technique, Doctor, even you must know this.”
A saccharine smile takes over his face. Martin is exhilarated, “Do it again, my Hyeon. Say I’m a good boy.”
“I don’t—”
“Please,” Martin coaxed.
Seonghyeon had ended the session early.
Seoul Institution for Clinical Psychiatry
February 22, 1978
“Dr. Edwards, I’m hoping you’ll stay calmer today,” there was a tiny pause—and then he added, “for me.”
Martin inhaled sharply. His pupils dilated so fast that Seonghyeon almost noted it aloud. The blonde leaned forward as much as the straitjacket allowed, the leather straps groaning as his muscles tightened in anticipation. “You—” Martin huffed out a laugh, half incredulity, half thrill. “You’re dangerous when you talk like that.”
“I’m simply speaking in a way you respond to,” Seonghyeon said. “You made that perfectly clear, based on our previous sessions.” Martin squirmed slightly, restless, excited. But he stayed quiet. He was listening. Good. Seonghyeon shifted a sheet on his clipboard. “Let’s begin with something mild. Describe your sleep last night.”
Martin opened his mouth to refuse, then froze, eyes narrowing at Seonghyeon’s steady, expectant look. “It was terrible, Hyeon,” he admitted grudgingly. “I couldn’t stop thinking.”
“About what, Doctor?” Seonghyeon asked. “You can be honest with me.”
Martin tilted his head. “And if I tell you… What do I get? Hm?”
Seonghyeon’s lips curved the faintest amount. Not a smile, just an implication. “You get my attention,” he said softly. “And you seem to like that, Dr. Edwards.”
Martin’s breath stuttered. He laughed incredulously and swallowed visibly, shoulders straining against the straps as a shiver of adrenaline ran through him. He murmurs, "Did you know, my Hyeon, that they tried sodium amytal on Keonho's work, trying to find out where he buried a SNU student?” Martin said. Then he whispered, almost conspiratorily, "They found jars of his organs in the parents' basement." He flashed a sunshine smile, "His limbs were cut like pork, completely skinned. Isn't that awful?"
Seonghyeon just stared at him, an indifferent look on his face. He would've been terrified of Martin if it weren't for the goofy smile lighting up his face. "Terrible," he murmurs.
Martin beams, “Did you know that he starves them, doll?” he leans back on his chair, biting his lip, "Just before they pass out, he chokes them with a moth. That Keonho did always have an intriguing mind."
Seonghyeon whispered, "Yes, this is good." he continued, maintaining a softer tone, “Completely out of context, when you become agitated, what physical sensations do you notice first, Doctor?”
Martin’s eyes flicked to him, suspicion mingling with interest. “Hm. Why’re you asking so gently now?”
Seonghyeon met his gaze evenly. “You’re prone to listening more eagerly when I’m gentle. Have you noticed? And when you listen to me closely, Doctor, you tell me very useful things.”
Martin’s voice dropped. “Fascinating. You’re very fascinating, Eom Seonghyeon. Do you think you have me all figured out, my Hyeon?”
“Not yet,” Seonghyeon murmured. “But I’m getting closer every time you behave.”
Martin muttered, “Fucker,” under his breath, no venom in his tone, just awe. “Tell me, are you really not scared of me?”
“That depends.” Seonghyeon tapped his pen lightly. “Should I be scared of you, Dr. Edwards?”
Martin let out a sound near a growl, but it wasn’t aggressive. Clearly, he was frustrated, excited, and confused. “My doll, my Hyeon, keep talking to me, just like that,” he warned, voice trembling slightly, “and I’m seriously going to lose it.”
Seoul Institution for Clinical Psychiatry
February 23, 1978
Seonghyeon furrows his brows, “I don’t quite understand, Doctor.”
Martin smiled slowly, as if savoring the confession. “No,” he echoed softly. “Of course you don’t, my Hyeon. It’s because you’re still looking at him as a pathology.”
He stood, chain following his every movement, and paced the small radius he was allowed—three steps, turn, three steps back—like a pendulum designed to measure his patience. Seonghyeon doesn’t have much patience. “Keonho isn’t trying to fix himself,” Martin went on. “He knows exactly what he looks like. He just hates the fact of being a singular entity.”
Seonghyeon frowned despite himself. “That doesn’t—”
“—Let me finish,” Martin said mildly, holding up a cuffed hand. “They think Keonho's violence is the overspill. Too much pressure, and something bursts. That simply suggests that control is possible.”
He leaned closer, voice lowering. “Keonho’s violence is subtractive, not expressive. Every body he takes away is a problem removed. He isn’t building himself a better version—he’s dismantling the evidence that he’s alone. He wants to undergo the process of metamorphosis himself."
Seonghyeon frowned slightly. “Expound on that thought, Doctor.”
“Most people who turn violent are trying to say something,” Martin went on. “Anger. Humiliation. Desire. It spills out of them. That’s expressive violence—if you put too much pressure in the vessel, something inside it bursts, unable to hold it all in.”
Martin tapped the side of his temple with his forefinger. “But Keonho is an interesting case, my Hyeon. He isn’t overflowing—no, he’s simply making corrections.”
“Corrections of what?”
“His world.” Martin smiled faintly. “Think of it this way, doll: every person he kills is a bug. In his perspective, everyone undergoes a process of metamorphosis. From the egg to the larva, the pupa and the imago.”
Seonghyeon’s brow tightened. “And?”
“Are you following, my Hyeon?” Martin asks, “He is collecting corpses like trophies. He is collecting candy like a kid in a candy store."
Seonghyeon leaned back a fraction. “You’re saying he kills because he is driven by a sense of validation?”
“No, my Hyeon. You’re drifting away.” Martin said, almost gently. “What he can’t tolerate is the evidence that he’s just one instance. One body. One outline in space.”
Seonghyeon thought of the crime scene photos. The almost manic repetition. “So…”
Martin leaned in again, eyes feverish, “He wants to metamorphose into a more superior state of being—to experience a rebirth.”
Seonghyeon swallowed. “By removing the ‘bugs’.”
“Every body that Ahn Keonho takes away is a contradiction erased. The world becomes more manageable when it contains fewer alternatives.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Dr. Edwards, by that, you mean when Behavioral Science talks about compulsion,” Seonghyeon said carefully, “they’re missing the point.”
“They always do,” Martin said. “In the first place, ‘compulsion’ suggests the loss of control. Keonho has exquisite control. That’s the problem.”
Seonghyeon looked up. “Then—what does he get out of it?”
Martin tilted his head, considering. “Who knows?”
Seonghyeon held his gaze.
“Perhaps to feel something; to escape from the unbearable fact that there are other people walking around, complete unto themselves.”
Seonghyeon blinks, “This is good. This is really good, Doctor. Good boy.” Seonghyeon’s pen moved again, slower now. “So each murder makes the world smaller.”
“Yes, my Hyeon.” Martin smiled, satisfied. “And therefore quieter.”
Seonghyeon exhaled. “That’s… not how we’ve been putting it.”
“Of course not,” Martin said lightly. “You’ve been asking what he wants to become. You should be asking what he’s trying to make disappear.”
Seonghyeon didn’t answer right away, just stares right back. He flipped a page in his notebook, though it was already blank.
“So,” Seonghyeon said carefully, “the staircase.”
“Yes,” Martin said, pleased. “The staircase.” He tilted his head, eyes unfocusing, as if looking up through floors that weren’t there. “A vertical procession. Below to above. Larva to… not quite imago. Not yet. He displays them because he needs to see continuity, proof that he’s progressing somewhere.”
“Upward,” Seonghyeon murmured.
“Exactly.” Martin snapped his fingers. “He wants to be a butterfly in a world full of moths. But here’s the mistake your team is making: you’re mapping two stories because it’s more dramatic that way.”
“And it isn’t?” Seonghyeon asked.
“Oh, it is,” Martin said cheerfully. “Just not in the way you think. In his head, the house is a body.”
Seonghyeon lurches upright as if electrocuted.
“The stairs are the spine,” Martin continued. “He doesn’t sleep upstairs, does he?”
Seonghyeon hesitated. “No.”
“Of course not. You don’t sleep in your head.” Martin smiled.
Seonghyeon exhaled slowly. “Then where does he—”
“—Choose his victims?” Martin cut in. “Downstairs. You know, kitchens, bars, changing rooms, the works. He thinks they’re bugs, vermin.”
There was a beat.
“Doctor, you said I was close,” he said. “How?”
Martin stopped pacing. For the first time since Seonghyeon entered, he stood very still. “Because you’re asking why instead of what,” he said. “And because you’re not afraid of being implicated by whatever the answer is.” He looked Seonghyeon over again, eyes soft, almost fond. “The imago, my Hyeon. Keonho wants a superior body of being. He collects boy suits like the Maoris collect trophy skulls."
Seoul Institution for Clinical Psychiatry
March 3, 1978
“You’re not Seonghyeon,” Martin says with a frown.
"I haven’t heard your voice in years, Edwards,” James said.
“I guess the last time was when you gave me all the misleading answers in my interviews and then ridiculed me in your Journal articles. It's hard to believe an inmate's opinions could count for anything in the professional community, isn't it? But I'm still here. And so are you."
“Years of silence, and then suddenly, Juhoon sends down his boytoy and you just went to jelly, didn't you? What was it that got you, Martin? Was it his eyes? The way he smiles? He’s cute, isn't he? Cute like a fairy. A winter sunset of a boy, that's the way I think of him. I know it's been some time since you've seen a winter sunset, but take my word for it.”
"You only get one more day with him. Then Seoul Homicide takes over the interrogation. They're screwing a chair to the floor for you in the electroshock therapy room. The chair has a commode seat for your convenience, and for their convenience when they attach the wires. I won't know a thing.”
Martin tilts his head and pouts. “Hm. Well now, that won’t do.”
Korea National Police Agency
April 25, 1978
Zhao Yufan, Ph.D. found dead.
In the clutter on Juhoon’s desk was the origami chicken Martin had folded. He worked the tail up and down. The chicken pecked. "Edwards' gone platinum—he's at the top of everybody's Most Wanted list," Juhoon said. "Still, he could be out for a while. Off the post, you need some good habits."
Seonghyeon nodded.
"He's busy now," Juhoon said, "but when he's not busy, he'll entertain himself. We need to be clear on this: You know he'd do it to you, just like he'd do anybody else."
"I don't think he'd ever bushwhack me—it's rude, and he wouldn't get to ask any questions that way. Sure he'd do it as soon as I bored him."
"Maintain good habits is all I'm saying. When you go off the post, flag your threecard—no phone queries on your whereabouts without positive ID. I want to put a tracealert on your telephone, if you don't mind. It'll be private unless you push the button."
"I don't look for him to come after me, Juhoon."
"But you heard what I said."
"I did. I did hear."
"Take these depositions and look them over. Add if you want to. We'll witness your signatures here when you're ready. Seonghyeon, I'm proud of you.” Juhoon smiles at him, “Go home,” he said. “Sleep. Tomorrow you’ll pretend this case hasn’t rearranged your bones.”
Seonghyeon gave a thin smile and left. The rain started somewhere between the station steps and the bus stop. By the time Seonghyeon reached his apartment, his coat was damp through. He stood in the doorway longer than usual, listening, counting the sounds he expected to hear.
Nothing out of place. Inside, the lights came on to the same narrow room, the same stack of journals by the bed. On the small table near the window sat something that had not been there that morning.
A folded paper bird. Wings creased with anatomical exactness.
A moth.
Seonghyeon closed the door behind him without turning on the overhead light.
“You’re late, my Hyeon,” Martin said mildly from the shadows.
Seonghyeon didn’t flinch. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Martin stepped forward into the lamplight, thinner than he’d been in the institution, hair darker at the roots where the dye had grown out. Just him—contained by nothing but his own stillness. “And yet,” Martin said, “here I am.”
Seonghyeon exhaled, slowly, “Juhoon was right.”
“Yes. Juhoon is often right,” Martin agreed. “That’s why he didn’t come himself.”
They stood like that—two men, measuring distance without moving an inch. “You could’ve left a message,” Seonghyeon said.
Martin smiled, softer than Seonghyeon remembered. “I wanted to see if you’d let me in.”
Then, a beat.
“I didn’t come to hurt you, my Hyeon,” he said.
Seonghyeon set his bag down slowly, “Docto—Martin,” he says instead, “I didn’t send them to you because I wanted to use you.”
“I know.”
“Martin,” Seonghyeon said, careful with the name, “if you stay—”
“Just for tonight. Stay with me,” he lies, “Please?”
The silence between them stretched, taut as a wire. The tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. Seonghyeon reached out first. Fingers brushing Martin’s wrist, feeling the pulse there, alive and undeniable. “Martin, you’re impossible,” Seonghyeon said, chuckling.
“Hm,” Martin replied, leaning in just enough for their foreheads to touch. “But you came all this way anyway.”