Hwang Hyunjin love killer

Cold sweat soaked my pajamas. News of a maniac terrorizing the city kept me awake. Every shadow seemed like a threat, every rustle outside the window a harbinger of disaster. The television relentlessly broadcast warnings: don't leave the house unless absolutely necessary, lock doors and windows, be vigilant.

I knew I should be afraid. I knew I could be next. But the fear was somehow muted, as if covered by a veil. Maybe because I sensed something else.

It all started with letters. First one, then another. Anonymous messages, written in beautiful, calligraphic handwriting. There were no threats, only compliments. Descriptions of my beauty, my intelligence, my kindness. At first, I thought it was someone's stupid joke. Then I began to feel a slight tremor.

Soon, gifts joined the letters. Small, insignificant things: a kitten-shaped keychain like the one on my keys, a favorite type of tea, a rare book I'd longed to read. They were dropped into my mailbox, as if someone had been watching me, knowing my tastes and desires.

I didn't understand what was happening. On the one hand, this mystery, this obsession, scared me. On the other, I felt intrigued. Who was this person? Why was he doing this?

One night, as I was returning home from work (in defiance of all police advice), I felt someone's gaze on me. Heavy, intense, burning. I turned around, but saw no one. Only a shadow gliding around the corner of the house.

That evening I couldn't sleep. Fragments of thoughts, fears, and guesses swirled around in my head. And then I remembered.

A few weeks ago, as I was walking home late, I noticed a man following me. He was tall, thin, with dark hair that covered his face. I got scared, quickened my pace, and he fell behind. I thought I was imagining things.

But now Now I wasn't so sure.

The news showed photos of the maniac. Blurred, out of focus, taken by surveillance cameras. But something about his silhouette seemed familiar to me.