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

I inch forward, squinting through the deluge. The rain hammers down relentlessly, turning the world into a blurred, grey haze. My clothes are soaked through, clinging to my skin, but I barely notice the discomfort. My focus is entirely on the shadowy figure ahead.

As I draw closer, the scene before me slowly comes into focus. There's a form on the ground – a woman, I realize with a jolt. She's lying motionless on the wet pavement, a dark pool spreading around her that I know instinctively isn't just rainwater.

Standing over her is a man. He's eerily still, seemingly oblivious to the rain pelting down on him. His gaze is fixed on the woman, unmoving, unblinking. The intensity of his stare sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold rain.

This is him. Our rain-day killer.

I move on instinct, my footsteps masked by the roar of the rain. The killer doesn't hear me approach, too absorbed in his grim tableau. In one fluid motion, I lunge forward, tackling him from behind.

The impact sends us both crashing to the ground. The killer lets out a surprised grunt, immediately starting to thrash and twist in my grip. He's stronger than his small frame suggests, driven by desperation and adrenaline.

We grapple on the wet pavement, a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths. Rain lashes at our faces, making it hard to see, hard to keep my grip. The killer's elbow catches me in the ribs, knocking the wind out of me, but I don't let go.

He manages to partially turn, his wild eyes meeting mine for a split second. There's a madness there, a feral intensity that makes my blood run cold. His hand scrabbles at his side, and I catch a glint of metal – the knife.

With a surge of desperate strength, I grab his wrist, slamming it against the ground repeatedly until his fingers loosen and the knife clatters away. The killer howls in frustration, redoubling his efforts to break free.

We roll across the pavement, each fighting for dominance. My police training kicks in, and I manage to maneuver him onto his stomach, twisting his arm behind his back. He bucks and writhes beneath me, but I use my weight to pin him down.

"It's over," I pant, fumbling for my handcuffs with one hand while maintaining my hold with the other. "You're under arrest."

The killer continues to struggle, but his movements are becoming weaker, more erratic. As I snap the cuffs around his wrists, he finally goes limp, his forehead resting against the wet pavement.

For a moment, the only sound is our heavy breathing and the ceaseless patter of rain. I've done it. I've caught the rain-day killer. But as I look over at the motionless woman on the ground, I know the night is far from over.

Keeping one hand firmly on the subdued killer, I reach for my radio to call for backup and medical assistance. The rain continues to pour down, washing away the horror of the night, but the memory of those manic eyes and the weight of what's transpired will stay with me for a long time to come.

The woman stirs, her lips moving as she regains consciousness. The rain drowns out her words, forcing me to lean closer while maintaining my grip on the suspect.

I'm torn between two urgent needs: tending to the injured woman and ensuring the killer doesn't escape. The frustration and anger building inside me are almost overwhelming.

A dark thought flashes through my mind – a desire to make the suspect pay for his crimes right here and now. The temptation is strong, fueled by rage and the chaos of the moment.

The rain is coming down in sheets, a relentless torrent that turns the alley into a river of filth and cold. I can barely see through the downpour, but I can feel him beneath me—his presence reduced to a quivering, broken form on the ground.

My fists are clenched, knuckles throbbing, and every breath I take is ragged, fueled by a rage that hasn't yet subsided.

He's down, barely moving, his body curled up in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from the blows. Blood mixes with the rain, trickling from his split lip, from the gash above his eyebrow. It pools in the dirty water beneath him, a crimson stain spreading slowly, washed away almost as quickly as it forms.

My chest heaves as I look down at him, struggling to control the anger still surging through me. The rain batters against my face, cold and stinging, but I hardly notice. All I see is him, lying there, subdued, helpless.

"Look at me," I growl, my voice hoarse, barely audible over the storm. He flinches, but he doesn't lift his head. His eyes are squeezed shut, as if refusing to acknowledge what's happening, as if by pretending I'm not here, I might disappear.

But I'm not going anywhere.

I reach down, grabbing a fistful of his soaked shirt, and haul him up. He's like dead weight, barely able to stand, his legs trembling beneath him. His eyes finally open, and when they meet mine, they're filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. He knows he's done. He knows he can't fight back anymore.

"Say something," I demand, shaking him, but all I get is a whimper, a pathetic sound that only fuels my anger. I shove him back down, and he hits the ground hard, a groan escaping his lips as he lands in the muck.

I stare at him, chest heaving, trying to catch my breath. The rain keeps pouring, relentless, and I can feel it seeping into my bones, but I'm still burning up inside. The satisfaction I thought I'd feel is absent, replaced by a hollow emptiness that gnaws at me, growing with every second that passes.

He doesn't move. He just lies there, beaten, broken, no fight left in him.

The sound of sirens pierces through the rain as backup finally arrives. Flashing lights illuminate the dark alley, casting eerie blue and red shadows across the wet pavement. Officers rush towards us, their boots splashing through puddles. Two of them immediately move to secure the suspect, trying to pull me away from him.

But I can't seem to release my grip. The anger that's been building explodes out of me in a torrent of words.

"You bastard!" I yell at the suspect, my face inches from his. "All those women! All that pain! For what?"

The backup officers exchange worried glances, increasing their efforts to separate us. "Detective, you need to step back," one insists, more forcefully this time.

Meanwhile, paramedics rush to the injured woman's side. They work quickly, assessing her wounds and preparing to move her.

"We need to get her to the hospital now," one paramedic shouts over the rain.

As they lift the woman onto a stretcher, her eyes flutter open, meeting mine for a brief moment. There's fear there, and confusion, but also a flicker of relief.

The sight of her, pale and bloodied, fuels my rage even further. I struggle against my colleagues' restraining hands, still shouting at the suspect.

"Look at her! Look what you've done!"

"That's enough!" A commanding voice cuts through the chaos. It's Seo, his expression a mix of concern and disappointment as he takes in the scene.

His arrival seems to break the spell. I finally loosen my grip on the suspect, allowing the other officers to fully take control. As they lead him away, I stand there, rain pouring down my face, mixing with tears of frustration I didn't even realize I was shedding.

Seo approaches me slowly, his voice low. "We've got him. It's over. But we need to talk about what happened here."

The rain continues to pour as Seo gently but firmly guides me towards his car. His hand on my shoulder is both reassuring and restraining, as if he's unsure whether I might bolt or collapse.

"Come on," he says, his voice low and steady. "Let's get you back to the station."

I comply wordlessly, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. As I sink into the passenger seat, I realize I'm shivering, my clothes soaked through.

Seo slides into the driver's seat, starting the engine. The car's interior lights illuminate his face, and I can see the concern etched in the lines around his eyes.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers and the dull roar of rain on the roof.

Finally, Seo breaks the silence. "We'll sort this out," he says, not looking at me as he navigates the rain-slicked streets. "But I need to know exactly what happened back there."

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. How can I explain the rage that overtook me? The overwhelming desire to inflict pain on the man who had caused so much suffering?

Seo doesn't push. He seems to understand my need for silence, at least for now.

As we drive through the nearly deserted streets, the neon signs and streetlights blur into a watery haze. It feels surreal, like a dream – or a nightmare.