Director Yoon. Director Yoon.
I repeated the name several times under my breath. A nagging sensation crept over me, as if I had been purposely kept out of the loop on his work. There was a fear that diving deeper into this matter would stir up unwanted emotions. So, like a fool, I had overlooked the words I should have heard. The words that sounded strange in Cha Jungwoo's voice note file, "Yooni" and "Did you buy it," should have been about "Director Yoon."
"I told you. Turn up the volume and listen to something interesting."
Yeah, I should have completely believed what you said. Like the road manager's question, everything ended too early, the boss I saw in the parking lot didn't seem to care about the matter at all. That Cha Jungwoo had known the solid evidence and the culprit from the start. Once again, you were the root of it all.
You are the true culprit behind this.
"Where are you?"
I sent a text message as I stood at the entrance to the train station, and the response came immediately.
"Wait at home. I'll be there."
Perhaps it's because I'm used to it, but I proceeded without hesitation along the small hallway with only the front door lit and into the dark living room. A hand reached a place on the wall, knowing the position of the switch without looking at it. The little world came to life as soon as the lights were turned on. A living room with unorganized books and documents. But, oddly, it didn't feel dirty. Someone may have come and cleaned it so that there was no dust inside. It was probably correct, given that the water cups on the kitchen table when I left this morning were gone.
Clean but not meticulously organized. I pictured the owner of this house instructing the cleaners, "Do not touch anything." Amid the belongings left unorganized according to his wishes, I found a pile of scripts I had forgotten about. I reached out and picked one up, simply examining it. Yesterday, he had left this script on the sofa, which he watched and then fell asleep on. I sat down comfortably, as I had yesterday, and turned the script over.
Before I delved into the contents, a thought struck me—this place didn't feel strange at all. There was no unfamiliarity or unease, even though it was someone else's house, especially the madman's house. With my eyes, I searched for the part that I had read the day before and remembered, "Ah." Because of the things scattered all over the place. There was a sense of life here. The warmth of an invisible man remained in the air. living space. Was I unconsciously at ease here? I felt strange. Because I always saw the contrary and found solace in it. Pathways to the graves filled with darkness, underground, and silence.
Flip.
I turned a page and focused on the new content that followed. My mind soon filled with the world of the protagonist, who went deeper and deeper into danger.
Click.
A small sound immediately jolted my drowsy mind. Startled, I opened my eyes and found myself staring up at the living room ceiling. I had fallen asleep again, and I couldn't help but curse my own lack of control. I pushed myself up from the comfortable couch, and the depressed portion slowly regained its original shape. The sofa's comfort was to blame, I decided as I looked around to identify the source of the sound.
But I didn't have to search long. I watched the madman emerge from the kitchen, he was wearing loose pants and his hair was damp, as if he had just taken a shower. He observed me who had awoken as he put the fresh bottled water to his mouth. I glanced at him blankly, trying to wake up entirely, but he stopped at the table and offered me the bottle of water.
