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

We round the corner to Choi's office, still shaken from our encounter with the man with the sickle, only to stop dead in our tracks. The fluorescent light above Choi's office door flickers erratically, illuminating a scene that makes my throat constrict.

A mass of figures stands clustered around his door - seven, maybe eight of them - but they barely look human anymore. They sway slightly in unison, like seaweed in a dark current. Their flesh bears the same signs of decay as the man with the sickle: patches of skin sloughing off, exposed areas black with rot, clothes hanging in moldy tatters from their bodies. The smell hits us like a physical wall - that same sickly-sweet decay mixed with something chemical and wrong.

"Dear god," Han whispers beside me, his gun raised but trembling slightly. "Are those... are those our missing officers?"

Looking closer, I can make out fragments of police uniforms among their rotted clothing. A detective's badge glints dully on one's hip. Another still has a duty belt, though most of the equipment has fallen away with chunks of decaying flesh.

They don't react to our presence at first, continuing their gentle swaying. Then one turns its head - far too far, the neck twisting at an impossible angle - and fixes us with milky white eyes identical to those of the man with the sickle. Its jaw works soundlessly, black fluid dribbling from between loose teeth.

As if this were a signal, the others begin to turn as well, moving with jerky, unnatural motions. Their faces all bear the same expression - a desperate intensity that seems to transcend their decayed state.

"They're blocking us from Choi," Detective Hong mutters, her voice tight with horror. "Whatever's in that office..."

Before she can finish, the figures move as one, arranging themselves into a tighter formation in front of the door. Their movements are more purposeful now, almost protective. Several raise their arms, fingers elongated into claw-like appendages.

Han draws a sharp breath. "Get ready," he says quietly, adjusting his grip on his weapon. "Whatever's happening here, Choi's office is clearly the key. And we need to get through."

The figures stare at us with their milky eyes, swaying, waiting. Guarding whatever secret lies behind that door with their rotting bodies.

The tension hangs thick in the air as we face off against what used to be our fellow officers. Han's voice cuts through the silence, hard with grim determination.

"Raise your weapons," he commands, though his own voice carries a slight tremor. "We have to get through."
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I hear sharp intakes of breath from our team. Detective Hong's gun wavers. "Sir... they're our colleagues," she whispers. "Jung there, I recognize his badge. We had coffee just last week..."

The rotting figures sway, their milky eyes fixed on us with that terrible intensity. Another piece of flesh slides off one's cheek, landing with a wet slap on the floor.

"They're not our colleagues anymore," Han says firmly, but with deep sadness in his voice. "Look at them. Really look. Whatever's happened here... there's no coming back from that." He takes a steadying breath. "I'll take full responsibility. But we need to get to Choi now, before whatever this is spreads further."

As if in response, the decaying figures begin to move forward with jerky, unnatural movements. Their jaws work soundlessly, black fluid dripping from their mouths.

"Everyone," Han's voice rises with authority. "Take aim. Whatever they were before, they're not human now. And Choi needs to answer for this." He steadies his gun. "I'll carry this weight. Fire on my mark."

The figures lurch closer, their rotting hands reaching toward us with blackened fingers.

"Fire!"

The hallway erupts with gunfire, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Muzzle flashes illuminate the horrific scene in strobing bursts. The figures jerk and twitch as bullets tear through their decaying flesh, but they keep coming, driven by something beyond pain or fear.

Black fluid sprays from their wounds instead of blood. The smell of gunpowder mixes with the stench of decay. Through it all, Han's voice stays steady, keeping us focused on our grim task.

"Keep firing! We need to get through to that door!"

The figures begin to fall, one by one, their rotting bodies collapsing with wet, heavy sounds. Even as they fall, their milky eyes remain fixed on us with that same desperate intensity, their hands still reaching, guarding their secret to the very end.

As the last figure falls, silence descends again, broken only by the sound of spent shell casings rolling on the floor and our heavy breathing.

"Move forward," Han orders quietly, stepping over the fallen bodies. "Whatever's behind that door, Choi has to answer for this."

We advance toward Choi's office, the weight of what we've just done hanging heavy in the air. But Han's right - there will be time for guilt later. Right now, we need answers.

The door swings open with an ominous creak, revealing Choi's office bathed in shadows. Han sweeps his flashlight across the room - empty. No Choi. No signs of struggle. Just an unnaturally pristine office.

"What the hell?" Detective Hong mutters, checking behind the desk. "He has to be here somewhere."

As we search the room, something catches my eye on Choi's desk - an object that seems out of place among the neat stacks of paperwork. It's an ornament, about the size of my palm, covered in intricate engravings. My heart nearly stops as I recognize the strange symbols etched into its surface.

"Han," I call out, my voice tight. "I've seen these markings before. In those old church documents we found - the ones about that ritual they used to 'silence the voices.'" My fingers hover over the ornament's cold surface. "It was supposed to help people who claimed they were hearing commands in their heads."

Before Han can respond, a sound reaches us from the hallway - shuffling footsteps, growing louder. More of them. Many more.

Detective Kim rushes to the door. "Sir! They're coming from both directions. Dozens of them. All like the others - rotting, moving wrong."

The ornament in front of me begins to emit a faint hum, barely perceptible but setting my teeth on edge. The shuffling outside grows louder, accompanied by wet sounds of decaying flesh dragging against walls.

"The ornament," I say, realization hitting me. "It's drawing them here. Like a beacon."

Han raises his weapon, torn between defending our position and deciding what to do. But I already know. Without hesitation, I grab the ornament and smash it against the edge of Choi's desk. The metal crumples with a sound like breaking glass, symbols fragmenting.

Instant silence falls.

We hold our breath, weapons trained on the doorway. Han signals two officers to check the hallway. They return moments later, faces pale.

"They're all down, sir," one reports. "Just... collapsed where they stood. No vital signs. They're just... empty shells now."

Han holsters his weapon slowly, looking at the crushed ornament. "Whatever Choi was doing here... you just ended it." He picks up a fragment of the ornament, studying the broken symbols. "But where is he? And more importantly - why?"

I pick up a crumpled piece of paper from under the fragments of the broken ornament. The handwriting is barely legible, written in frantic strokes that tear through the paper in places.

"Han," I say slowly, turning to face him. "Look at this. It's Choi's writing, but... different."

Han moves closer as I smooth out the paper. The words are a mess of Korean and what appears to be Latin, most of it incomprehensible, but certain phrases stand out:

Not enough time... the voices getting stronger... have to complete the ritual before He arrives... the ornament will draw them, keep them here... buy me time...

"He set this up," I say, the realization hitting me. "The ornament, these people - it was all a trap to slow us down. He needed time for something."

Han's eyes narrow as he reads the note. "Time for what?"

"I know where he's gone," I say, pieces clicking into place. "The church. He's gone back to where everything began. These symbols," I gesture at the broken ornament, "they match exactly what we found in those old church documents. The ritual they mentioned, about silencing the voices..."

"You think Choi was studying this? Trying to recreate it?" Han asks, tension visible in his shoulders.

"Not recreate," I say, pointing to another scrawled line in the note: must finish what they started. "I think he was trying to complete it. But something went wrong. The note suggests he was running out of time, that someone - or something - was coming for him."

Han's quiet for a moment, processing. Then he checks his weapon with practiced efficiency. "The church it is. But this time, we go in knowing what we might find."

Around us, the office feels suddenly smaller, as if the weight of what awaits us at the church is already pressing in. The crumpled note in my hand seems to pulse with an unseen energy, a final warning of what's to come.