#like there’s a woman lying dead on the road and her killers in custody so why are we talking about dreams and nightmares and psychic photos?

[gracemarkss]

trying to gather my thoughts on unruhe. something about this exchange is so vital to me…about how scully maybe isn’t as natural a seeker as mulder. about how her work as a pathologist is focused on “how” rather than “why”…whereas mulder’s profiling is the inverse. a woman is dead and a man killed her and no amount of probing the inner workings of his psyche, his dreams, his nightmares will remedy that situation. discovering the why doesn’t bring about any deeper sense of justice or peace. because really, no why could ever really explain the mundane horror of a woman’s abduction and murder. if anything, it just more starkly reveals the ugly simplicity of the human capacity for cruelty.

but i also love how later, she leans on the why. she channels mulder and his profiler brain. schnauz even picks up on it (“great. now they got you talking like sigmund freud,” in reference to him calling mulder freud during his interrogation). she asks him why he does it. why her. why this. why did his sister kill herself. why did his father do what he did. part of it’s to keep schnauz talking but it’s also another example of how she reaches for him, even metaphorically, in moments of fear and difficulty.

i also love how this episode, with its themes of unrest and strife and trouble, focuses on scully. mulder is usually the more restless character, always searching and seeking and chasing and moving. but scully is just as, if not maybe even more so. her mother’s remaining daughter. her father’s disappointment. a catholic to her bones, even as she lapses. a woman in a man’s job. who imagines a life to be a husband and kids and big sunday dinners, but who can’t stop following the mad man in the basement. who always insists she’s fine, who locks it all away, who chafes and squirms and explodes in impulsive incendiary bursts. who is always always trying.

there are just some things we don’t or can’t look too deeply into. if god is real, or why the woman in front of us is dead. scully will dig and scrape for proof and explanations for many things, but some interrogations aren’t worth the effort, or the fear of what might be found. some things just are, and they’re too big to move or change or overcome. women die because men kill them. what the hell does it matter?

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 14

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 5.7k

warnings: mild violence, foul language, dark themes and mental health.

description: Han Jisung’s overheard confession sends the precinct -- and the rest of Miroh Heights -- into chaos, forcing law enforcement, police, and citizens alike to choose sides. While he’s locked up, though -- making the acquaintance of a strangely familiar inmate along the way -- Jisung remains unaware of just what lengths some of the people around him are willing to go to in order to save his life. 

watch the trailer here!

14| monsters and men.

The interrogation room held a chill that seeped deep into Jisung’s bones. 

Across from him, the woman — prosecutor — that had been questioning him tapped her fingers on the table’s cold steel surface, her thinning lips the only indication of her growing impatience. They had been sitting for over an hour now — granted, there was no clock on the room’s bare walls, so Jisung could only guess — and he hadn’t spoken a single word.

“Staying silent isn’t going to help your case, you know,” the woman reminded him for what seemed like the thousandth time. She had curling brown hair and tired eyes — it seemed to Jisung like a recurring trait amongst law enforcement workers — and a thin line of a mouth. 

She had been nice enough, reading him his rights and asking questions calmly, but Jisung just couldn’t will his lips to move. He’d been absently studying the handcuffs clasped tight around his wrists with his head bowed. Kang had grudgingly called in a physician to perform first aid on the numerous cuts on his body — including the shallow stab wound above his hip the blonde man had inflicted — and after spending hours in the cold interrogation rooms the sharp aches of pain had eventually grown numb. Every word they spoke to him sounded as if it were in another language, bouncing off before they reached his ears, as if Jisung was enclosed in a muddled, soundproof bubble.

They had brought in a psychologist, too, after he’d stayed silent for an hour — a stout man with watery blue eyes whose tone was too warm for Jisung’s liking. 

“On a scale of 1-10, how are you feeling?” 

“Can you tell me what’s going on in your head right now?” 

“I’m here to help you, kiddo — cooperate with me a bit.”

But another hour dragged by, and so the prosecutor had returned. 

Jisung’s mind kept wandering — to the sickly warm feeling of blood, your blood pooling onto his shaking hands, your blood drained face on the hospital cot, Chan’s feverish eyes as he’d held onto Jisung’s slack shoulders with a fatherlike sort of firmness.

Just as the woman let out a sigh of defeat, the metal door behind Jisung swung open with a screech. Behind his golden spectacles, Prosecutor Kang’s beady eyes darted from Jisung’s empty expression to the woman’s tired one and scowled. 

“He’s still refusing to talk?”

The woman nodded. Jisung felt the weight of their stares boring into his head. Kang jerked his head towards the door and the woman stood to leave as the older prosecutor took her place across the table. 

“You’re holding out longer than I thought.” When Jisung didn’t react, Kang continued with a smirk, “Though I suppose I would expect nothing less from a cold-blooded killer.”

Killer. The note of truth in the word stabbed through Jisung’s gut like a switchblade.

“Well, boy, you’re sly, I’ll give you that —” Kang narrowed his eyes, “But I’m warning you now, we’ve already gathered enough incriminating evidence. DNA from the crime scenes, CCTV footage — you’re only a couple of lab tests away from a guilty conviction, Han Jisung.”

He was lying, Jisung knew he was — lying to get him to panic and talk. Minho had long since erased all fingerprints and disposed of all evidence, after all. Jisung had watched him do it with his own eyes. 

Scowling at Jisung’s silence, Kang stood suddenly and slammed his hands onto the metal table, sending the pad and pen skittering. He leaned in closer, his voice a rancid whisper. “Talk or not, you’re not going to be leaving police custody anytime soon. I’ve seen cases like yours. You look all—innocent—on the outside—” Kang’s eyes were almost pitying, his tone condescending— “But deep down, inside? You’re fucked up to the core, and you know it, too. You know you’re a defect of society — so why are you trying so hard to pretend that you’re normal?”

Jisung didn’t realise how tightly he had been gritting his jaw until it began to ache, his clenched fists shaking white. It was like Kang was pulling every fear Jisung had ever had out of the dark crevices of his mind, forcing them beneath the harsh, burning light.

“No matter.” Kang drew back, raising his eyebrows. “You’ll crack sooner or later—just like you always do, eh?” He took off his spectacles, wiping them with a cloth from his breast pocket without taking his eyes off of Jisung. “Like yesterday morning, no? Two men dead and three comatose. Not to mention the poor girl hanging onto her life by a thread as we speak—”

At this, Jisung’s eyes flickered upwards for the first time since they had detained him. The light above him was bright and seared at his retinas, but all he could focus on was Kang’s jeering face. The older prosecutor raised his eyebrows, a flash of triumph rippling across his features.

“You haven’t heard? Or did you simply not care? An innocent young woman, and a switchblade to her heart—” Kang clicked his tongue. “The surgery isn’t going well, I heard. She’ll be lucky if she’s able to stay in critical condit—”

Jisung stood up so quickly his handcuffs banged onto the corner of the table and sent a bruising pain through his wrists. He whirled towards the door, already mapping out the shortest route from the precinct to the hospital—but Kang was onto him, rough hands seizing him by the back of his shirt and pinning him painfully against the desk with an echoing bang. He could feel the stab wound reopen beneath the bandages, a shock of fresh pain in the numbingly cold room.

“—go,” Jisung gasped out, his cheekbone crushing against the smooth steel. “Let me — need to see her, make s-sure she’s okay—let me—”

Kang’s disbelieving bark of laughter sent chills down Jisung’s spine. Jisung knew he could overpower him if he tried—but what about the officers standing guard outside, the dozens patrolling the precinct? The thought of the life fading from your eyes was enough to make him want to throw up.

“No need to pretend you care, Mr. Han—save that energy for the rest of the trial, yes?” At that, Jisung heard the metal door screech open again, and two officers’ hands replaced Kang’s on either side of his shoulders. 

The older prosecutor dusted off his hands, then fixed Jisung with a satisfied look. “You’ll be kept under custody until enough evidence has been gathered and processed to begin the trial.”

“Can I—see her? Please, you can—trail me, you can do whatever you want with me, I just—one moment—”

Kang cut him off. “You gave us nothing for nearly five hours. Even if you had, you have places to be, Mr. Han—the state prison, to be exact.” Seeing the confusion flash across Jisung’s whitened face, he continued with a savage glint in his beady eyes. “You’ll be a temporary inmate until you’re called for trial.” He glanced at his watch, then nodded at the officers, who began escorting Jisung from the room. 

Behind him, Kang called slyly, “You’ll be cohabitating with the worst of the worst—or shall I say, your own type?” He could hear the smile in the prosecutor’s voice. “We’ll see how long you last.”

━━━━━━━━

The bus ride to the prison was strangely peaceful.

Jisung caught a glimpse of the clock before he took a seat at the back. 12:00. Dead midnight. The streets were cleared, and there were nearly no cars on the road—the aftereffects of the lockdown had likely sent the citizens in a state of paranoia. Because of me, Jisung thought numbly. Because of the Mass-Murderer of Miroh Heights. Besides two accompanying officers and the driver, the shuttle was empty. 

No other inmates. Jisung was alone.

He had never really gotten used to the loneliness, though it had followed him his entire life. Each time it came back, it seemed more suffocating than the last. A voice in the back of his head told him that maybe this was how it was supposed to be. That maybe, for someone like him, he deserved nothing more.

The overwhelming feeling of emptiness began to numb his chest. Eventually the rocking motion of the bus pulled him into a cold wash of dreamless sleep. The last image he saw behind his drooping eyelids was your face.

━━━━━━━━

Jisung was woken two hours later, and they spent the early hours of the morning taking pictures and recording his information before he was given a change of clothes and finally escorted to a cell. Other inmates were waking up, some taking walks, but none spared him a second glance. They were all wearing the same stiff uniforms, with a number stamped on their breast pockets. Jisung almost laughed—for once, nobody cared who he was, who he might be. For once, he had nothing to hide.

The air smelled of dust and salt, and the inside of his mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. The prison guard motioned towards the last cell in the corridor, and Jisung stepped inside, watching the light in the room disappear as the heavy doors slammed shut behind him. As his eyes adjusted under what little patchy sunlight the barred windows let in, he realised with a start that there was another man in the cell.

“You planning to stand there for the rest of your sentence?” His voice took Jisung by surprise — it was mild, nonchalant — no hint of threats, hostility, or ulterior motives. Compared to the last forty-eight hours, it was like a breath of fresh air.

Jisung looked around the cell, not quite sure where he was supposed to go. The man chuckled and gestured across from him, and so Jisung awkwardly took a seat on the floor in front of him. The man was contemplating him with slightly raised eyebrows, and Jisung was beginning to get the feeling that somewhere, somehow, he’d seen his face before. His eyes had a familiar crescent lilt, and the corner of his lips were wide and upturned, making him look as though he were always smiling—fox-like features, but with none of the slyness. He was middle-aged, his thinning hair streaked with gray.

“You look like you could use a nap, son,” the man finally remarked, and Jisung subconsciously rubbed at his eyes. Son. Why did the word sound so strange to his ears? “What’s a kid like you doing in a place for monsters?”

Monsters. The old man certainly didn’t look like one. He looked like he could be someone’s uncle, professor, or father. He had said it lightly, almost as if he didn’t take it seriously, but the word still made Jisung’s heart sink. “Are you...a monster?” He finally asked, and the man laughed, but there was a sad edge to his voice.

“Well. That’s what they called me, ten years ago. You can make of that what you want, eh?”

Ten years ago. What had he done to earn such a long sentence? There was a brief silence, before Jisung felt compelled to speak again. It was as if the hours of silence had finally taken a toll on him now, and his tongue was beginning to burn with words and questions. “You don’t look like…”

“A monster?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Neither do you, son. But we’re both in here for a reason, no?”

“What’s yours?” Jisung was surprised at his own boldness — the man could turn on him any moment, after all. But he realised that he was already far beyond the point of caring whether or not he got hurt.

The man studied him for a long moment, and seemed to make a silent decision before finally speaking. “I...killed a man. I killed a man who had hurt someone dear to me.” He let out a deep sigh, and Jisung watched his face cloud over with memory. “A few said it was justified, but the prosecutor in charge was a stubborn one. Headstrong. The world of law is a cold one—killers are convicted without pardons, and murder is murder regardless of the circumstances.”    

Jisung swallowed a painful lump in his throat, but his voice still came out sounding like he was being choked. “I killed people who...hurt someone I loved, too,” he murmured quietly. For a moment, he thought the old man hadn’t heard—his voice was nearly inaudible—but when Jisung lifted his gaze, he saw that the man was listening intently, warm brown eyes focused on his face. “B-but in the end, I...hurt the person I loved the most. Because I couldn’t...stop.”

The man sighed. “I know.” 

This took him by surprise. Confused, Jisung followed his gaze to the corner of the cell, where there sat a stack of newspapers. The one on the very top had bold headlines that screamed, MASS ASSAULT AT LOCAL DINER. TWO DEAD, FOUR IN CRITICAL CONDITION. Just the black-and-white picture of Mia’s Diner on the cover sent a twist of nausea through his gut. “I’ve been following the case—the Miroh Heights Murders. It’s you, isn’t it?”

Jisung could only nod, exhaling shakily. “Unlike you, I...I deserve what they call me.”

They were silent for another couple of minutes, the man contemplating Jisung with that same, strangely familiar look in his eyes, and Jisung avoiding his gaze and staring at the dusty ground. He was already filled to the brim with self-loathing. The last thing Jisung needed was a convicted criminal looking at him in disgust, too—he didn’t think he would be able to take it. 

Instead, the man simply said thoughtfully, “They can—and trust me, they always will—call you what they want. Whether or not you choose to believe it, though, that’s up to you. You know what I learned, son?” Jisung finally lifted his head to meet the man’s gaze, hesitant but curious. “The more you accept those words and let them explain your past, your actions — the longer you let their voices replace your own…the more those words end up becoming your truth. You know yourself better than they do.”

Jisung looked down bitterly. Did he? “You can’t — make those excuses for me. I’ve killed people, I’m a killer, I’m a monster—”

“Are you the monster they claim you’ve always been?” The old man interrupted gently. “Or are you forcing yourself into the mold of the monster they’re making you out to be?”

Jisung was silent. The sun had changed positions while they were talking, the glare in the cell softening into a golden glow. “Why are you telling me this?” 

The man sighed, stretching. “I’ll be honest, I’m not too sure, myself. I haven’t talked this much in a while. I’ll say, though, boy, I’ve seen my fair share of monsters—been in here for ten years, and I’ll be in here for the rest of my life. You’re not one of ‘em. As a matter of fact, you remind me of...myself.”

Jisung looked over at the newspapers again. “Why were you following the case?”

“You need to find a hobby to keep yourself sane in here,” the old man scoffed. “I would usually say it’s out of boredom, but...not this time. I have a son,” he finally confessed, a softer note in his voice. He tilted his head, studying Jisung’s features thoughtfully. “He’s a few years younger than you. Just got into university, I heard. Miroh Heights. I worry...about how he’s doing.”

Jisung nodded, a sour taste in his mouth. Imagine living with the serial killer from your son’s campus. Suddenly, the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing a guard. “Mealtime,” was all he said, and the old man stood.

Before they were escorted out, Jisung asked one last question. “What’s your— what should I call you?”

The old man thought for a moment, then smiled. “People in the town used to call me Old Yang.” He shrugged, a wistful look in his eyes. “Yang is fine.”

━━━━━━━━

Prosecutor Kang was in the middle of lighting a cigarette when Seungmin stepped outside the District 9 Precinct. The interrogations had just ended, and Seungmin had been told to stay behind and drive a couple of his higher-ups back to the law firm. Judging from the sour look on Kang’s already taut features, the questioning hadn’t gone well.

“Kim Seungmin,” Kang called by way of greeting, and Seungmin gave a curt nod. “As you may have heard, the serial killer — ah, the Han Jisung case, I should say—has been transferred to me.” When Seungmin forced himself to stay silent, Kang glanced over and gave him a clap on the back. “Now, now—don’t feel too ashamed, Kim. Everyone makes rookie mistakes. They may have assigned the wrong case to you, but rest assured — it’s in proper hands now.” 

“Is it?” Seungmin couldn’t help blurting, and instantly regretted it. Kang’s face darkened, and the older prosecutor turned to face Seungmin head on.

“Have something to say to me, Kim?”

Too much, Seungmin thought, except he could never get the proper words out of his mouth. They would bubble and foam on the tip of his tongue before his own anxiety and apprehension would push them back down hastily. “I’ve just — never understood the way you handled cases, sir.”

“Seungmin.” Kang took a short drag of his cigarette, then took a step closer. Seungmin could smell the bitter tobacco, mixed with mint, on his breath. “Allow me to share a word of advice. They won’t teach you this in law school.”

He took another drag, then continued. “Your job as a prosecutor is not to judge the defendant fairly.” When Seungmin opened his mouth in indignant protest, Kang cut him off. “If you want a smooth career...all you need to do is make sure you’re appealing to the right people. In other words, listen to what the public wants.” Kang jerked his chin; a couple of blocks down the street, the familiar flashing of police cruiser lights were illuminating Mia’s Diner. “Please the public; don’t waste a single damn about the defendant. You spent all your precious time worrying your little head over the killer’s motives, and now that we finally have him, you’re still worrying over the severity of his sentence. Murder is murder, Kim Seungmin, and actions speak louder than motives. You can show lenience towards a mass-murderer, or you can sweep his sorry past under the rug and bring closure to dozens of families. Which would make you a richer, more popular man?”

Seungmin grit his teeth, a sour taste flooding his mouth. “Is that how you got to where you are?” Everyone knew Kang was one of the most affluent prosecutors in the firm — no, in the entire city.

Kang only smiled, spectacled eyes flashing like a snake’s. “Think, boy. As far as anyone needs to be concerned, the cold-blooded killer is caught, peace is re-established, families are soothed, justice is served once again — and I come out the hero. You saw that boy’s wretched past. Even he can’t handle it. So why poke at wounds that aren’t meant to be reopened?”

Kang flicked his cigarette, not catching the way Seungmin was shaking with anger. “You think you’re being kind? Justice isn’t meant to be kind, Kim.” He shrugged. “Make up the easiest case to solve and do everyone a favour.”

Just then, the precinct’s glass doors slid open and a couple of prosecutors stepped out. Kang waved them over into one of the parked cars, Seungmin in the driver’s seat, and they sped off, leaving the parking lot eerily empty.

Yang Jeongin stepped out from the corner where he had been standing, concealed in the shadows, the confused nurse he had guilted into letting him “take a quick walk” trailing by his side.

“We best be going, sweetheart,” the old woman said worriedly, eyes darting nervously between Jeongin and the IV drip still connected to his arm. “Fresh air is good, but it’s best you don’t overexert yourself this soon.”

Jeongin nodded absently, and let her guide him back to the hospital while clutching his arm. He felt stronger, but his head was beginning to pound again. 

He glanced down at his other hand, where he had been holding out the voice recorder, and pressed END RECORDING.

━━━━━━━━

“Hey, chin up, kiddo. Look at me.”

Even though Bang Chan was sitting on the other side of the plexiglass, Jisung couldn’t bring himself to meet his friend’s eyes. He heard the detective sigh.

“When the trial starts. Plead not guilty, you hear? I know what you’re thinking, but if you plead guilty, that Kang bastard is going to eat you alive.” 

“I can’t.”

“Jisung—”

“I can’t, Chan. I’m not innocent. Shit, I — I can’t even remember half the murders they’re accusing me of, but I know my hands are bloody.”

“If you can’t remember, that factors into the investigation. A mental impairment, a handicap--” Chan was in detective mode, hands gesturing wildly as if he were moving his thoughts and theories through the air. “We need to find out why.”

“Woojin visited before you,” Jisung said in a dead tone. The police captain had been the most distressed Jisung had ever seen him, pacing the room with a locked jaw. It seemed to be a habit of his.

“Han Jisung, I’ve seen numerous murder cases before. This isn’t...right. Your sentence shouldn’t be as heavy as Kang’s making it out to be, but he’s removed both Chan and I from the investigation. We couldn’t gather more counter-evidence if we tried…” the captain looked up at him, his dark eyes troubled. “Unless you give it to us.”

The detective fell silent as Jisung repeated Woojin’s words. The younger boy’s voice was shaking with so much raw, unconcealed emotion Chan felt his own two hands clench into shaking fists. “And I won’t. So please, Chan—and tell this to Woojin, too—don’t throw away your reputations to save me. I...don’t deserve it.”

At this, Chan stood up abruptly, slamming his hands on the desk so hard the Plexiglass screen between them shook violently. “To hell with reputation. I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you it all over again: Jisung, you don’t deserve the death penalty.” 

Jisung got to his feet, too, staring his older friend down with shaking pupils. “I don’t want to hurt anything — anyone — for as long as I live. Never really have, although I can’t exactly tell them that, can I? It needs to stop. This—I—need to stop. This needs to end — and if a death penalty is the only way to do it, I’ll take it.”

Chan raked a hand through his unruly blond hair. “Take a lawyer at least, ‘sung, haven’t they told you you have the rights to one? Hell — do it for y/n. She needs you. She needs you to stay alive.”

At this, Jisung swallowed a painful laugh. “I think I’ve learned better than anyone that in order for her to live, I need to stay out of her life. For good. She is the reason why I need to do this, Chan.”

Before Chan could respond, the timer buzzed and the door clicked open, and Jisung was dragged out of the distressed detective’s sight again.

━━━━━━━━

Fire.

That was the first thought that flashed in your head, the first word accompanied by a twinge of searing pain that pulled you ever so slightly out of the murky darkness. You were burning up, an inferno that sapped all the energy from your veins and made you want to curl up and lose what little consciousness you had just regained.

There were tiny pinpricks of light poking through your vision now, and the fire was beginning to concentrate on one area in your chest. Your lungs were aching, trying to steal back the air that the fire was consuming and as your mouth pried itself open to catch your breath your eyes shot open and you were thrust into a world of blurry white and muffled sounds.

Blinking groggily, you began to register your surroundings — a familiar white, speckled ceiling, the rhythmic beeping of a heart machine. A pinch of wires attached to needles biting into your arm. And the awfully sore, burning throbbing underneath your left collarbone.

A nurse that had been replacing the IV fluid nearly dropped the sack when she saw your open eyes. “Sweetheart? Can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

You blinked rapidly, and she gave a sigh of relief. “I’ll call the doctor, you sit tight, alright?”

She returned with an older woman who spoke so quickly you could barely catch her words. You were lucky they didn’t have to undergo open-heart surgery—the wound was deep, but missed a major artery in your heart by a thread. Instead, you had a punctured lung they had resected, which explained the burning ache in your left side. And you had been unconscious for nearly three weeks.

You had been unconscious for nearly— 

“Three weeks?” You sat up suddenly and the nurse’s eyes bulged at your abrupt movement.

“You’d best not move too much if you don’t want to be unconscious for more,” she scolded. “You poor thing. Don’t you worry, though, sweetheart—that monster who attacked you’s supposed to stand trial soon. He’ll be paying for his sins in no time.” 

Her words only hit you after a beat of silence.

Stand trial.

Pay for his sins.

Han Jisung.

The memories came back in a violent flood—you had been woken by an echoing crash from the living room and gone back to sleep briefly. By the time you had thought to go and check, Jisung had been long gone. After a chase down dead ends under a growing thunderstorm, you had followed the muffled sounds of pain and fighting all the way back to the back lot of Mia’s Diner, where the only boy you had ever loved had been kneeling like an avenging angel over five unmoving bodies.

You had called out his name like a shout into the void.

And when he finally heard you, there had been a flash of pain that sent you doubling over. You remembered the switchblade sticking out from your ribs, how it had felt like your body was no longer your own. And you remembered the last thing you had seen before you had slipped unconscious—Jisung’s horrified, tear-filled eyes.

You had wanted to say something to him then, but the words hadn’t made it past your lips. They had echoed in your head when you slipped away, and they came back to you now.

Don’t blame yourself.

Because it was me who chose to stay. To listen. To fall in love with you — each and every part of you, Han Jisung.

And somehow, I don’t regret a single choice I made.

Your fingers absently trailed to your side, where a thick layer of bandages rose beneath the hospital’s scrubs, and found your mind wandering to a memory of Felix and Hyunjin. It hadn’t been too long ago — a couple of semesters after the three of you had first met as freshmen.

“Complexes?” Felix had repeated, and you nodded.

“It was the topic for my psych lecture today. It’s a core part of your subconscious — shaped by perceptions, emotions, and memories. It can be a fear, or a belief, but it usually has a theme of some sort, and like all subconscious influences it affects the way that people act. You know, like an inferiority complex, or an Oedipus complex.”

Hyunjin snorted. “Felix definitely has an Oedipus complex. I’ve seen him call his crushes “mommy” one too many times.”

Felix smacked the taller boy, mouth falling open in protest. “It was a joke, bro!”

The barista had rolled his eyes, pulling a new bag of coffee beans from the shelf. “Jokes always stem from truth, my friend. Anyways, if we’re talking about complexes, you can’t deny that y/n has a hero complex.” 

Felix had nodded rapidly at this, and you had raised an eyebrow. “Not that you want to be a hero or anything, but it’s like, you kinda want to save everyone, all the time. You can’t stand to see anyone suffering. I’ve never seen anyone more fitting — or less fitting, depends on how you look at it — to be a therapist.”

Hyunjin had made an amused sound of agreement before you could argue. “You remember that stray cat with a limp we found behind the shop in freshman year? She wouldn’t stop crying until we brought it to the vet. And the bird with the broken wing that crashed into the window upstairs—wouldn’t leave its side until it could fly again.” He shook his head, smiling at the indignant look on your face.

“Your complex extends to humans, too, you know,” Felix continued without missing a beat. “You walk home the little kids whose parents are at work during the winter because it gets dark early. That girl who used to get bullied by her classmates would come to Glow Cafe, every morning last semester, just to talk to you. The list goes on.” The blond journalist hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe we’ll make it a new segment in the paper: Good Samaritans of Miroh Heights.”

“Don’t you dare,” you had snapped playfully, “That sounds even more ridiculous than the damned Matchmaker of Miroh Heights.”

“You can’t save everyone, y/n,” Hyunjin had said, giving you a small, well-meaning smile. “Someone going into your field ought to know that, sooner or later. No matter how stubborn you are, no matter how much you want to.”

As if on cue, Minho’s words from the rooftop echoed in your head, sending a chill down your spine. There is little you can do for people who don’t want to be helped, y/n.

You gritted your teeth in defiance. To hell with it.

All you knew was that if there was something you were going to save, it was going to be Han Jisung’s life. 

The nurse opened the curtains, letting bright beams of sunlight cast their warmth into the room. The light was blinding, but it felt good on your face nonetheless. Before she left the room, she turned to you. “Is there anything I can get you, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip. “Can I have my laptop?” 

━━━━━━━━

Your paper was just as you remembered it — you had thought the rough draft was completed, save for a few points that needed tweaking and a few references you needed to track down and cite, but now you quickly scrolled to the bottom and deleted the entire conclusion. You had all the puzzle pieces in your hands — not just the voice recordings and notes from the final interviews, but you now had access to police statements (Chan and Woojin were one phone call away) and numerous newspaper articles. Now you knew which concepts to apply, now you had all the theories and evidence you needed.

This wasn’t just going to be a final paper.

You had to get it published as a formal case study.

By the time you had finalized your thesis and made the finishing touches, the moon was threatening to drop from inky night sky, the hues of dawn slashing through the velvet horizon. Your room was dim, but you could feel the city below — and the rest of the hospital outside your room — thrum with a sort of life, a neverending heartbeat. Your phone was still warm by your side, having made nonstop calls to whoever you could get ahold of that was working on Jisung’s case. You picked it up to make one last call.

You peeked at the clock. 5:02 A.M. “Rise and shine,” you muttered, and punched in the number.

He picked up on the seventh ring. “...ngh? Whuhsh hap’ningh?” 

“Felix,” you breathed. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed your best friend, and his familiar, groggy voice made you smile. “Felix, it’s me.”

You heard him sit bolt upright and choke before clearing his throat, fully awake now. “y/n? Holy shit, you — are you okay? I mean, what the hell, of course you’re not fucking okay — when did you wake up?”

“This morning,” you told him. “Look—”

“Y/n, I’m so sorry. I— I don’t even know what to say. If I could go back to the day I set up that stupid blind date —”

“I’d let you,” you interrupted him, and you heard him fall silent in confusion before you continued. “Listen, Felix. If you really want to make it up to me, check your email and read the paper I’m sending over.” 

“You...want me to read over your psych paper?” There were a few beats of silence as the blond skimmed over the documents you had sent, and realisation dawned on him. “Y/n — these are — you mean —”

“Today’s Saturday. The weekly campus paper goes out on Monday. I need you to cover this story, ‘lix.” 

You heard him swallow uneasily. “Shit, y/n, I—you realise these directly contradict the local press? They’ve been throwing up story after story about how Jisung’s a — a cold-blooded psychopath, and that lead prosecutor keeps egging them on. The campus newspaper is far bigger than your average school newsletter, heck, I’ve been bragging about it since before I joined, but…” he hesitated before saying the worry that had been tugging at the back of your mind. “Will it even stand a chance?”

You exhaled slowly. For a long moment, all you could hear was your pounding heartbeat, synchronised to the high-pitched beeping of the heart machine by your bed. “We won’t know unless we try.” Your voice faltered, giving into your own creeping anxiety. “What do you think?”

At that, you heard him let out a slow, decisive breath, and something changed in the blond’s voice — a grit and determination you always saw when Felix was working on a new story, setting his mind to a challenge — and it immediately gave you a newfound surge of confidence, a feeling of assuredness you hadn’t felt in a while. 

“I think,” Felix began, and you could almost see the glint of determination flickering over his usually mischief-bright eyes, “It’s time to kick some prosecutor ass.”

[aion-rsa]

The Woman in the Window Ending Explained

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This article contains The Woman in the Window spoilers.

Twisty-turny thriller The Woman in the Window has arrived on Netflix with some distinct Hitchcockian vibes. It’s based on the bestselling novel by A. J. Finn and directed by Joe Wright (Atonement, Anna Karenina, Darkest Hour), with Amy Adams as the titular woman. 

This is classic high-concept crime drama in the style of Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train while the premise is reminiscent of Rear Window. Adams plays Anna Fox, an agoraphobic woman who believes she has witnessed one of her neighbors being murdered in her own home, which she views from out her window. But something odd is going on here. The murdered woman – if she even exists, is not who Anna thinks she is. Is her tenant to blame? What’s going on with the 15-year-old who lives across the street? And why is his dad so aggressive?

These are just some of the many questions that may occur to you as you are following the labyrinthine plot of The Woman in the Window.

In case you missed a bit, we break down that ending.

The first big revelation that’s key to the plot is that the woman Anna meets on Halloween night is not Jane Russell – that’s just an assumption Anna makes. As you will recall, Anna goes to her front door to shout at some kids who are throwing eggs at her house but, overwhelmed by her agoraphobia, passes out. At the door is a woman with long blond hair (Julianne Moore) who helps Anna. Anna assumes she is Jane Russell because the woman says she has just come from across the street, and because previously Ethan (Fred Hechinger), the 15-year-old kid who lives at that address, brought round a lavender soap which he says is a gift from his mother. Anna has done some research on the Russells and knows a bit about them but not what they look like.

This woman – who we discover later is called Katie – spends the evening chatting and drinking with Anna. Though Katie initially questions being called Jane (“why would you assume that?”), she later draws a picture for Anna and signs it “Jane Russell.”

Later that night Alistair Russell (Gary Oldman) comes to the house and asks if anyone from his family had paid her a visit that night. Anna lies (or thinks she’s lying) and says no, because Katie (who she thinks is Jane) has indicated that Alistair can be rather rigid and controlling (which he can). Alistair is not looking for Jane – the real Jane (played by Jennifer Jason Leigh) is presumably at home. Instead he’s after his son, who presumably has had some contact with Katie – his birth mother.

Who is Katie?

We learn that Katie is Ethan’s birth mother. When she was eight months pregnant she left Alistair and disappeared. He spent two years looking for her, eventually finding her in a “meth commune” at which point he took Ethan, and Katie went to prison. Since then the family has been hiding from Katie – only recently had Katie discovered they had moved to Brooklyn and Alistair had been paying her to stay away from her son.

Katie spends the night with Anna’s tenant David (Wyatt Russell), who says she is a bit of a nightmare. He goes to spend the next night on a mate’s sofa so as to avoid seeing her. She leaves her earring in his room.

What’s David got to do with things?

Poor old David. What we make of this character will depend somewhat on how reliable a narrator the film is as well as how reliable Anna is. Initially David seems to be an essentially nice, friendly chap, a singer-song writer who does odd jobs to make ends meet who lives in Anna’s basement and offers to help her out occasionally. Anna is fairly frosty towards him – she is fairly frosty in general – but likes him (we learn, via a conversation, in her head, with her dead husband – more on him in a bit).

David does some work for Alistair Russell but doesn’t meet Jane. He also borrows a boxcutter from Anna when he’s helping a mate moves some boxes. David shows a much darker side when he finds Anna in his room uninvited, holding his post, including a letter which indicates he’s on parole and in violation of that. David says it’s because of a bar fight. He gets aggressive with Anna and is mocking of her agoraphobia. If this is real, he’s not a good guy. But Anna has changed meds and been drinking on the meds and is susceptible to paranoia and possibly hallucinations – just because she really did see Katie get killed does not mean the rest of her view isn’t skewed.

When Anna has a melt down she tells the police that David should be in prison, that he has a history of violence and accuses him of the killing. Anna has also been sent a picture of herself sleeping which David couldn’t have taken – he has a solid alibi for the night it was taken. After that, unsurprisingly, he decides to move out. On the night Anna is planning to kill herself she is waiting for David to get the rest of his stuff before she does it. In the video she makes by way of a suicide note she makes it clear he hasn’t nothing to do with her death. But before he arrives she finds the photo with Katie’s reflection in the wine glass. When David sees it he identifies her and is able to explain who she is to Anna. However he refuses to go to the police with her.

Turns out that was a bit of an error. Later that night David gets stabbed to death by Ethan.

Who killed Katie?

That would be Ethan. Ethan, it turns out, is a serial killer in the making. His first experience was with his father’s previous assistant Pamela Nazin who fell to her death from her sixth floor unit. Did Ethan push her? Not entirely clear, but he was definitely there when she died. Ethan reveals that it took her a full five minutes to die and watching her pass was a big part of the thrill. 

Ethan then kills Katie, witnessed by Anna. We would assume that Alistair, and possibly Jane, are aware of this and send him away to something called The Wilderness Programme in New Hampshire which Ethan says is more like a prison. Rather than escaping from there, he just never went at all and has been hiding in Anna’s house all week. The sleeping photo was taken by him. When he learns she is going to kill herself he says he would have been content to just watch – he would have snuck in to say goodbye at the last minute. But after Anna finds the photo and learns about Katie she has a change of heart.

Ethan has already stabbed David and is planning on killing Anna. Anna tells Ethan she’ll go ahead with the suicide anyway – David’s death will look as if it was committed by Anna and she’s already recorded her suicide note. She pours the crushed up drugs she was preparing to use to take her own life into her glass of wine and takes a sip. But unexpectedly she smashes Ethan over the head with the wine bottle and runs rather than finishing the glass. After a chase and a fight where Anna gets a gardening fork in the face, she pushes Ethan through a glass skylight and he plummets to the bottom of several flights of stairs, dead.

Doctor Fox, your family is dead!

Before we cut to the very end, a quick recap on Anna and what the actual deal with her is. At the pinnacle of her breakdown, with Anna pointing fingers left, right and centre, accusing Alistair of child abuse, suggesting David might be the killer, Detective Norrelli (Jeanine Serralles) shocks Anna out of her psychosis when she points out “Doctor Fox, your family is dead.” 

Though Anna had claimed to be separated from her husband (Anthony Mackie), with their daughter staying with him, it appeared that every night he would talk to her – she’d tell him about her day including suspicions about the Russells, and sometimes talk to her daughter Olivia.

Turns out that was all in her head. In reality Anna, her husband and daughter were on a trip, driving high in the mountains in the snow. Anna and her husband were arguing because Anna had been having an affair. While driving a phone call on her mobile from an unknown number, which may be from her lover, distracts her from the road and she crashes the car, which results in the death of her husband and daughter. Unable to forgive herself Anna later attempts suicide. The extreme guilt causes her agoraphobia as well as her delusions that she is speaking to her dead family.

The end

Believe it or not, The Woman in the Window has something of a happy ending. Having pushed a teenage psychopath to his death through a window, Anna wakes in hospital. Nice Detective Little (Brian Tyree Henry) is there and he offers Anna a full apology – Katie’s body has been found, the Russells are in custody and even though Alistair is keeping closed-lipped, Jane Russell is not. While Detective Little has seen Anna’s suicide video on her phone he opts to give her the chance to erase it before the phone is taken in as evidence, in an act of penance.

Nine months later and Anna has made a remarkable recovery all round. She’s sold her place and is moving house, and as she departs for the final  time, she bids farewell to the ‘spirits’ of her husband and daughter that had kept her company while she was shut in there. Taking her cat with her in a carry case, Anna walks out the front door and into the world, her agoraphobia no longer present.

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The Woman in the Window is available to stream on Netflix now.

The post The Woman in the Window Ending Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[dirjoh-blog]

This is probably one of the most disturbing murder cases in history. The fact that the victim was a toddler is awful enough but knowing  that two 10-year-old’s, Jon Venables and Robert Thompson from England, who killed and mutilated the body of the 2-year-old James Bulger, makes it nearly unfathomable.Even more disturbing is that the killers have been released from jail with new identities.

The fact that the suspects were so young came as a shock to investigating officers, headed by Detective Superintendent Albert Kirby, of Merseyside Police. Early press reports and police statements had referred to Bulger being seen with “two youths” (suggesting that the killers were teenagers), the ages of the boys being difficult to ascertain from the images captured by CCTV.

Forensic tests confirmed that both boys had the same blue paint on their clothing as found on Bulger’s body. Both had blood on their shoes; the blood on Thompson’s shoe was matched to Bulger’s through DNA tests. A pattern of bruising on Bulger’s right cheek matched the features of the upper part of a shoe worn by Thompson; a paint mark in the toecap of one of Venables’s shoes indicated he must have used “some force” when he kicked Bulger.

The boys were each charged with the murder of James Bulger on 20 February 1993,[7] and appeared at South Sefton Youth Court on 22 February 1993, when they were remanded in custody to await trial. In the aftermath of their arrest, and throughout the media accounts of their trial, the boys were referred to as ‘Child A’ (Thompson) and ‘Child B’ (Venables).While awaiting trial, they were held in the secure units where they would eventually be sentenced to be detained indefinitely.

On that fateful day, the troubled boys were skipping school and wandering around a busy mall, stealing sweets, batteries and a bucket of paint – items that were later to be found at the murder scene. Casually observing children, they were looking for a child to abduct. The plan was to lead the victim to a busy road and push him into the path of oncoming traffic.

On February the 12th, 1993. James was out shopping with his mother in the New Strand Shopping Centre near Kirkby, England.

His mother Denise was briefly distracted inside a butcher’s shop on the lower floor of the center. A minute later she realized her son had disappeared. James had been wandering by the open door of the shop when Thompson and Venables caught his attention and lured him out of the mall at 3:42 pm.

Denise panicked and headed to the mall��s security office. She described her son’s appearance and what was he wearing: a blue jacket and grey sweat suit, a blue scarf with a white cat on it and a t-shirt with the word ‘Noddy’ on it. For security, it was a routine day. They often had to announce the description of a lost child over the loudspeaker so that parents could reunite with their child at the information centre. But what started off as a lost child in the mall, turned out to be one of the most prolific missing child cases in the history of the UK.

At 4:15 pm, the local Police Station was notified.

Sometimes he ran ahead, other times he fell behind. The boys were walking around aimlessly until they reached a nearby canal and proceeded to go under a bridge to an isolated area. There, they dropped James on his head. Venables and Thompson ran away, leaving the toddler crying. A lady saw James sobbing and assumed he was just playing with the local kids.

In his utter innocence, bruised and crying, James followed the boys once again. Several witnesses saw them and later described a boy crying and older boys kicking him. No one intervened, thinking that older brothers were just fooling around and watching over their younger sibling..

At approximately 5:30 pm, after more than a two-mile hike, Venables and Thompson decided to go to the railway tracks to finish the business. Between 5:45p m and 6:30 pm, James was brutally murdered.

The assault began with the boys pouring the stolen paint from the mall into James’ eyes. They pulled off his pants and underwear, mutilated his foreskin and inserted batteries into his anus. They kicked, threw stones and eventually smashed his skull with an iron bar. When they believed James was dead, they laid his body on the tracks, covering his bleeding head with bricks and rubbish, making it look like an accident.

They left just before the train came. The forensic pathologist of the case, Dr. Alan Williams, stated that James suffered so many injuries – 42 in total – that he was not able to confirm any one of them as the fatal blow, beyond the fact that he had died before the train cut his body in half.

Police got a hold of the CCTV footage of James’ abduction. The disappearance made the evening news and calls immediately poured in. Two days later, the severed body was found lying on the tracks. When the circumstances became public, the crime scene was flooded with hundreds of bouquets of flowers. The tabloids denounced the people who had seen the abduction but had not intervened to aid him.

Three days later, a breakthrough came when a woman recognised Venables on the released low-resolution photo from the CCTV footage. The tip-off led to an arrest and the boys were taken to separate police stations where they gave a total of 20 interviews over three days.

The boys confessed and were found guilty on the 24th of November, 1993, and received the sentence that would keep them behind bars for at least until they reached the age of 25. This decision made Venables and Thompson the youngest convicted murderers in modern English history and the youngest convicted murderers of the 20th century.

In 1999, lawyers for Thompson and Venables appealed to the European Court of Human Rights that the boys’ trial had not been impartial, since they were too young to follow proceedings and understand an adult court. The European court dismissed their claim that the trial was inhuman and degrading treatment, but upheld their claim they were denied a fair hearing by the nature of the court proceedings. The European Court also held that Michael Howard’s intervention had led to a “highly charged atmosphere”, which resulted in an unfair judgment.On 15 March 1999, the court in Strasbourg ruled by 14 votes to five that there had been a violation of Article 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights regarding the fairness of the trial of Thompson and Venables, stating: “The public trial process in an adult court must be regarded in the case of an 11-year-old child as a severely intimidating procedure”.

In September 1999, Bulger’s parents applied to the European Court of Human Rights, but failed to persuade the court that a victim of a crime has the right to be involved in determining the sentence of the perpetrator.

The European court case led to the new Lord Chief Justice, Lord Woolf, reviewing the minimum sentence. In October 2000, he recommended the tariff be reduced from ten to eight years, adding that young offender institutions were a “corrosive atmosphere” for the juveniles.

In June 2001, after a six-month review, the parole board ruled the boys were no longer a threat to public safety and could be released as their minimum tariff had expired in February of that year. The Home Secretary David Blunkett approved the decision, and they were released a few weeks later on lifelong licence after serving eight years.

Both men “were given new identities and moved to secret locations under a “witness protection”-style programme.”  This was supported by the fabrication of passports, national insurance numbers, qualification certificates and medical records. Blunkett added his own conditions to their licence and insisted on being sent daily updates on the men’s actions.

The terms of their release include the following: they are not allowed to contact each other or Bulger’s family; they are prohibited from visiting the Merseyside region;curfews may be imposed on them and they must report to probation officers. If they breach these rules or are deemed a risk to the public, they can be returned to prison.

An injunction was imposed on the media after the trial, preventing the publication of details about the boys. The worldwide injunction was kept in force following their release on parole, so their new identities and locations could not be published.

Blunkett stated in 2001: “The injunction was granted because there was a real and strong possibility that their lives would be at risk if their identities became known.

In the months after the trial, and the birth of their second son, the marriage of Bulger’s parents, Ralph and Denise, broke down; they divorced in 1995. Denise married Stuart Fergus and they have two sons together. Ralph also remarried and has three daughters by his second wife.

On 2 March 2010, the Ministry of Justice revealed that Jon Venables had been returned to prison for an unspecified violation of the terms of his licence of release. The Justice Secretary Jack Straw stated that Venables had been returned to prison because of “extremely serious allegations”, and stated that he was “unable to give further details of the reasons for Jon Venables’s return to custody, because it was not in the public interest to do so.”On 7 March, Venables was returned to prison on suspected child pornography charges.

In November 2011, it was reported that officials had decided that Venables would stay in prison for the foreseeable future, as he would be likely to reveal his true identity if released. A Ministry of Justice spokesman declined to comment on the reports. On 4 July 2013, it was reported that the Parole Board for England and Wales had approved the release of Venables.

On 3 September 2013, it was reported that Venables had been released from prison

  The murder of the toddler James Bulger This is probably one of the most disturbing murder cases in history. The fact that the victim was a toddler is awful enough but knowing  that two 10-year-old’s, Jon Venables and Robert Thompson from England, who killed and mutilated the body of the 2-year-old James Bulger, makes it nearly unfathomable.Even more disturbing is that the killers have been released from jail with new identities.