Chapter 1

The studio was chilled by the air conditioning.

The tension peculiar to a live broadcast was drawn taut like an invisible thread.

Each time the camera rail moved, a low mechanical hum echoed across the studio floor.

Beyond the glass of the control room, staff members with headsets pressed over their ears exchanged cue signs through hand gestures and lip movements without a moment to breathe.

And at the center, framed by the main camera, was the Newsdesk.

Two men in immaculate suits sat across a table from each other.

One was the anchor of , and the man seated opposite him was today’s guest.

The bright studio lights pouring down from overhead illuminated the guest like the noonday sun.

As the man skimmed the materials he had prepared and tilted his head slightly, his glossy black hair slid over his dark brows.

Whenever the tips of his hair, holding the light, brushed the corners of his eyes, faint shadows wavered.

A sharply rising nose beneath a straight forehead. Lips with an unusually distinct line. Beyond silver-rimmed glasses, his coolly open eyes and black pupils were sharp enough to dissect a person’s hidden depths.

Though the glasses partly obscured his face, he was clearly handsome. When he lowered his eyes as if lost in thought, he even gave off a strangely dangerous air.

The man who drew the eye in so many ways was Gong Iheon.

He was appearing as a consultant for the case to be covered on today’s nine o’clock news.

On the large LED panel behind the Newsdesk, footage showed a man surrounded by police, bound with a restraint cord, descending the steps of a police station.

The man in the footage had a hat pulled low and his face covered by a black mask. No sound could be heard, but the man’s shrunken shoulders and bowed head alone conveyed the outcry at the scene.

Bold subtitles were stamped clearly across the screen.

[ Arrest of the suspect in the murder case of a bride-to-be ]

[ The culprit is a workplace colleague ]

“How do you view this case, Professor Gong Iheon?”

After briefly finishing his briefing on the case, the anchor asked for his opinion.

Iheon, both hands clasped on the table, was silent for a moment. The bright studio light glinted sharply across the lenses of his silver-rimmed glasses.

“The key to this case is that the motive for the murder was not simply anger.”

When he parted his lips, a low, refined voice flowed out.

“The suspect had observed the victim over a long period and had continuously checked her commuting hours, movements, and personal relationships.”

On the LED panel, the suspect’s movements and CCTV captures from before the crime appeared in succession.

Repeated late-night loitering near the victim’s residence, entering and leaving the same convenience store at regular intervals, and movement patterns that exactly overlapped with her commuting hours were confirmed.

“From a criminal psychology perspective, this is close to a typical obsessive relational delusion—what is known as ORI (Obsessive Relational Intrusion).”

There was not the slightest tremor in the voice explaining that this was the type who believed the other person had a special relationship with him and turned to violence the moment that belief collapsed.

The man’s impassive expression was that of someone who had already analyzed dozens of similar types of people.

Iheon continued smoothly.

“Stalkers who reach this stage no longer perceive the target as an independent object. Put simply, they begin to treat the victim as an ‘attachment object.’”

“Do you believe the victim’s marriage news served as the direct triggering factor?”

“Yes. The victim’s marriage news was not merely a broken heart; it was highly likely the catalyst that caused the distorted relational narrative the suspect had built for himself to collapse completely.”

“I see.”

“What matters is that there were already preparatory actions before the crime.”

Iheon’s black eyes, which had been fixed on the LED panel, shifted toward the anchor.

“Preparing a weapon, checking movements, attempting to avoid CCTV, erasing traces immediately after the crime—this is far from the pattern commonly seen in spontaneous crimes.”

He analyzed the truth of the case item by item in a calm, low-pitched voice, and his credibility seemed to rise, as if the listener’s ears opened of their own accord.

“Spontaneous murders usually occur under emotional overload. That is why scene control often breaks down. Excessive violence, illogical flight, self-harm attempts—those are typical.”

Having heard Iheon’s explanation, the anchor asked carefully.

“Professor Gong, do you see this case as a planned crime?”

He drew a short breath and slowly parted his lips.

“Yes.”

His eyes, fixed directly on the camera angle, were coldly hardened.

“I judge it to be closer to a planned crime executed at the moment his fantasy collapsed, after a long accumulation of obsession and desire for control.”

There were many phrases that described Gong Iheon, but to define him in just two lines: he was a professor in the Department of Criminal Psychology at Hankuk University and the youngest profiler in South Korea.

* * *

After successfully finishing the live broadcast, Iheon went down to the underground parking lot and got into his car. When he started the engine, a heavy, quiet hum greeted him.

Without turning on the radio or music, he drove straight out of the HJBC broadcasting station parking lot and entered the open road.

Late at night, Yeouido was bright with the lights of buildings that had not yet fallen asleep.

As he turned onto the Olympic Expressway, the black Han River stretched long beside the car window. Unlike the dark water whose bottom could not be seen, the surface rippled with five-colored sparkles.

“Haa……”

Feeling an inexplicable tightness, Iheon rolled the window all the way down. The river wind pushing into the car was lukewarm, unlike the chill of the studio.

Keeping his gaze far ahead, in time with the flow of the car in front with its red taillights, Iheon mulled over the broadcast from moments ago.

When explaining another person’s obsession and murderous intent, he was clearer-headed than anyone.

To a profiler, a criminal was not an incomprehensible monster.

Most criminals build their own dark room inside themselves over a long time.

A room filled with deficiency and anger, inferiority and self-pity, twisted attachment and hatred.

Then, at some moment, they lock the victim inside that room.

Sometimes they call it love, sometimes revenge, sometimes destiny. But it is merely the manifestation of a wrong desire.

Iheon analyzed criminals but did not pity them.

“Tsk.”

He suddenly clicked his tongue as if sighing. With the hand resting on the window frame, he twisted the knot of his necktie, neatly tied beneath the collar of his dress shirt.

He had read and analyzed the hearts of countless criminals.

And yet, he felt utterly pathetic that he could not read the heart of just one woman.

The car had already passed the southern end of Banpo Bridge and was turning toward Seorae Village.

The road, once wide open, gradually narrowed, and instead of building lights, the shadows of street trees fell across the car window.

His house was at the end of a hill road leading away from the center of Seorae Village, below Montmartre Park.

After a moment, a detached house with trumpet creeper blooming profusely over the wall came into view beneath the night sky.

Iheon parked in the private garage, turned off the engine, took his briefcase, and got out of the driver’s seat.

As he opened the gate and crossed the small yard, he stepped hard in his shoes to erase the thoughts that kept chasing one another.

Even as he walked steadily to the keypad on the front door, he wanted to stop thinking about her.

What lingering attachment could he possibly have left for a woman who had left without a single word?

The time he had spent mulling over a wife who had suddenly vanished one day had already been half a year.

Not only that, but two months ago she had abruptly sent him divorce papers.

Without an apology, without a reason for going this far. Just a single sheet of paper.

The countless question marks engraved in his mind had long since become resentment with nowhere to go.

With a cold expression, Iheon opened the front door. As the door opened, the sensor light on the ceiling came on.

“……”

Even though he had opened the front door himself, he stopped dead and could not step inside.

Because a pair of shoes was sitting where there should have been nothing.

They were familiar yet unfamiliar black sneakers. Compared to his own, they looked about half the size.

Taking his eyes off the sneakers, he passed through the inner door and glared toward the inner hallway. The place where faint light leaked out was the kitchen facing the living room.

Iheon’s eyes twisted savagely at once.

When he listened, he heard the sound of chopping from inside the house, which should have been silent.

Tak tak tak tak.

What on earth was this supposed to mean?

Strength entered his lower jaw. His molars ground together as if they would shatter.

Without taking off his shoes, Iheon stepped into the house.

Thud, thud. Behind him as he walked quickly, the front door slammed shut.

The sound of stew bubbling and the savory smell of soybean paste drew closer, and the moment he faced the woman calmly setting the dinner table.

His eyes ached with fury that surged up in an instant.

“You’re back? You’re late.”