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whimsimille · 5 months ago

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PSHYCHOCHROMIA

Seo Moonjo (Patient) x Reader! (Doctor)

Chapter 1: Hues of grief

"Motherhood is owning a second heart that beats outside your own body. It's joy, yet sorrow," mused Grandma Anastasia Song, a poetess with a first name as American as the apple pie from the small bakery down the lane and a surname as Korean as the homemade kimchi fermenting in the earthenware pots in her backyard.

She held Ae-ra close to her flaccid chest, completely absorbed in the pixelated murmurings of an old video from three weeks ago—a precious moment captured right inside the delivery room named "Ae-Ra's Grand Entrance!"

Though the image was shaky and Min Ju had, thankfully, skillfully avoided anything too anatomical, Anastasia saw your sweat-slick hair sticking to your forehead, heard your desperate cry, "I am doing it!" when one of the nurses urged you to push, and noticed a few droplets of blood on the surgical cloth—not many, but enough to create what her mother would have described as a "beautiful spectacle." Naturally, in English.

“A second heart, huh?” Sneering, you felt the spring in the tattered velvet armchair dig into your thighs while you watched as she moved in her rocker to become more at ease. With the hand she wasn't using to hold your daughter, she took another bite out of the freshly baked cookies that were cooling on the side table.

Gooey filling seeped down her chin and the delicate crust crumbled under her teeth and spattered in Ae-ra’s blanket as she rocked both of them—it tasted exactly how Mrs. Johnson's made them back home. Some tastes never really left her mouth or heart, even if she has been absent from America for decades.

“Yes, it is. A child means another heart. It expands to make room for all that love. And when they leave, well, it shatters a little too." She mused between bites. In the already hardened fabric of her sweater, there were small crusts of biscuit glued by saliva.

Once the recorder hummed to a stop and the grainy footage ended for the fifth time, you crouched in front of the vintage TV, fingers trembling slightly as you took out the video tape, taking care not to disturb the old thing.

“So, yes, you must be ready, dear. Your second heart is bound to stop beating very soon.”

Your breath stopped.

What?

Suddenly, the quaint house, with its worn-out red bricks and peeling white paint, felt too quiet, too still. The cheerful chirping of the sparrows nesting in the ancient birch tree outside, the rustling of the leaves in the wind that carried with it the scent of blooming azaleas, the distant laughter of children playing in the park down the cobblestone path—everything was drowned out by the deafening silence in the room.

Swiveling around, you observed Anastasia cradling Ae-ra, running her thumb, sticky with the remnants of the chocolate-covered cookie, over the tiny lines of your daughter's palm as if she were a cartographer mapping territories on a yellowing parchment. It was unsettling how calm she remained while predicting such a dreadful fate for her great-granddaughter.

"What happened, Halmoney? Is something wrong with Ae-ra?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Grandma reassured you. "It's just... time. Life is fleeting, my dear. It's like the wind blowing through a field of wheat: constant movement but soon gone before we know it."

Ae-ra cooed softly in her great grandmother's arms, blissfully unaware of the weight pressing down on your heart. She kicked her little legs playfully and batted at the lacy edge of her baby blanket, giggling when it swirled around her face like a cloud.

You watched as Anastasia smiled tenderly at her, wrinkles crinkling softly around her eyes, before they focused on the bright autumn leaves rustling outside. "Your grandpa is waiting for her in the afterlife now," she said quietly, "and soon she must join him."

Dumbstruck, you stood there, words failing you. Your mouth opened and closed in a futile attempt to voice your disbelief, much like a fish gasping for air on dry land. Your stupor was broken only when you felt the front of your blouse getting damp. Excess milk seeped through the fabric, making you look like a dairy cow in the middle of milking.

It was past time to feed your baby.

"For heaven's sake, don't say such things, Halmoney!” You exclaimed, clenching your chest in an attempt to stem the flow. Jesus, that was fucking painful.

Anastasia simply chuckled at your reaction, her wrinkled face crinkling even more at the corners. "You're as stubborn as your father, my dear. Always quick to deny what you don't want to hear. Just like that time when he refused to believe his favorite tree in the backyard had to be cut down. But truth, my dear, is like an ocean. It's vast, endless, and you cannot simply fence it off."

Then she turned her attention back to Ae-ra, her expression softening. "Now, come on, take Ae-ra and feed her. Unless you want your breasts to swell up like balloons. Believe me, you won't get to do this for longer.”

Inspired by the Sisters of the Harvest Moon, a group of women who, like the ancient Druids, found divinity in the waning of the moon and natural cycles, Anastasia's eccentric beliefs had their origins. They believed that mirrors were doorsway to fucking entire dimensions and that a child who looked too long into an old Venetian mirror would be blessed—or ill-starred, depending—with dreams of the future. The Sisters left an imprint on your grandmother 's life, seeping into her from 10 and extending well into her Doc Martens-clad teenage years until 18. They wore ropes on their belts—to beat, not to measure—and they never saw a child's ear in their way that they didn't want to twist.

Perhaps that’s why you didn't let out the primal scream building in your chest at that moment, your almond-shaped eyes wide as saucers. Because, in the end, her childhood was made out of convoluted beliefs and harsh discipline, and she wasn't predicting the death of your Ae-ra out of some perverse pleasure. In the end, she wasn’t trying to make you lose your grip on sanity; leap across the room and yank out the collection of vintage hair pins—an assortment of pieces from the 1950s, studded with tiny pearls—that were failing to control the silver curls haloing around her head in a style that would've made Einstein proud.

In the end, the old woman was fucking right.

It was June, the third year without your baby, and you were throwing up in a bed of hyacinths as if trying to expel the grief lodged deep within you.

You only knew they were hyacinths because Mom had some planted in your garden back in Jeju, and for days she talked about how the landscapers from the local 'Kim's Gardening Services' put them in lopsided. You didn't know flowers could be lopsided. That's what you thought about as you sat there in the dirt, staring dizzy at the flowers, wet and blue and bright.

Outside Westlake Psychiatric Ward, an iron and gray monolith with no dreams or aspirations, the hyacinths had been planted.

It was located in the oldest part of Gonjiam Hospital. The original Victorian-style brick building had long been surrounded and swallowed by larger and generally uglier extensions and annexes. "The Caged Mind Asylum" was at the heart of this complex. The only indication of the dangerous nature of the occupants was the row of security cameras perched on the fences like vigilant birds of prey.

At the reception, every effort was made to make everything seem quite friendly: ample blue sofas, rustic and childlike paintings and drawings of the patients hung on the walls. It looked more like a garden to you than a forensic psychiatric hospital for jailed people whose families had abandoned them because they could not afford the hefty cost of adult diaper changes and the fact that, besides being criminals, they were out of their minds.

It's strange how quickly we adapt to the frightening world of a psychiatric hospital. We become increasingly comfortable with madness—not just the madness of others, but our own. You believe that we are all mad, just in different ways.

And that's why—and how—this place was more than just a place—it was a job. You, Song Y/N, with your PhD from Seoul National University and your internship at Massachusetts General Hospital, were supposed to be inside. You were meant to be standing tall and confident in front of the imposing white doors on your well-tailored scrubs. Instead, you were outside, staring at a puddle of puke and trying to catch your breath. And the sky was falling—wet, wet and blue and bright.

Soon enough, your husband, or what was left of him, would come looking for you to ask how your day has been with his usual pathetic monotone, and you'd have to summon a convincing smile. You'd avoid telling him that your day has been merely a puddle of clear water mixed with remnants of your breakfast—crunchy slices of apples from Mrs. Lee's fruit stall and homemade kimchi. Then, you'd steer his attention to something mundane, something safe—like the weather or the incessantly leaky faucet in the kitchen that the local plumber promised to fix since last Tuesday.

There are many reasons why you ran out of that place for crazy people like you, but here's the overarching one. The only one that really matters.

Ae-ra.

How can a tiny four-year-old, with a presence so radiant and a laugh that echoed like a cathedral bell, be gone so soon and be silenced so abruptly?

It's been three years. Three years of questioning, of doubting.

There is no reply from Him. Never. Not even a whisper in the wind nor a hint in the rustling leaves. The Almighty remains silent, devoid of answers. Every time you have screamed, raged at the sky, your voice echoing against the hard concrete of the city buildings, there is only silence returned. You call out names like "God," "Jehovah," and "Yahweh," clutching your rosary beads bought from the small gift shop adjoining St. Peter's Basilica during your honeymoon in Rome.

Every night, under the vast expanse of the inky sky, you wrestle with the notion of divinity. Your fists clenched, your knuckles white, the metal of your wedding ring biting into your skin.

What you remember most about those early years was the sheer physicality of it all. Small fingers on the cheek. A belly on a hip. Legs climbing onto the lap. A hand slipping silently into your own. And all this amid the haze of sleeplessness. It was Min Ju who slept badly, but Ae-ra had her moments. And for what seemed like months, mornings would shock you awake, finding the three of you sprawled across the sheets like battered objects washed up on the shore. Yet there was such joy in that physicality. Bodies entwined. Pressed up against each other. Safe.

No amount of medication or counseling at the esteemed Johns Hopkins can satisfy the void that exists right now.

Shit, you’re not even a romantic; you never have been. Poetry and grand gestures are not things you believe in. But this... this is a different kind of story. A story of love that no heart can forget. Not when it loves somebody that way, and not when it still beats for them even when they are no longer around.

And so, you live quietly, one day at a time, with a scar that no amount of time can heal—a wound that is always fresh. But that's fine because you've lived through entire disasters in silence, you know how to create silence. It's like this: turn on the radio very loudly, then suddenly turn it off. And so it captures the silence. Starry silence. The silence of the moon changes. For everything, you created silence. It is in silence that the noise is heard more. Between the hammerings, you heard the silence of your grief and your blood pumping through your arteries.

Because, in the end, isn't that what survival is all about?

“Doctor?”

Since your childhood, Mom has often told you about your peculiar habit of associating colors with feelings, people and events—a trait that you had passed onto your daughter. Both of you stood out like sore thumbs in the conventional world.

Ae-ra had been the subject of many parent-teacher meetings and counseling sessions. However, you never felt the need to consult a doctor, as you knew it was an inherent trait, not a disease that could be cured with pills. Maybe the influence of Anastasia and The Sisters had seeped into both of your lives more than you realized.

For both of you, everything had a distinct color. It wasn't simply about the physical appearance, like a tree being brown and green. No, it was more profound than that. If a flower was dying, then its color would be a sickly gray. If a bird was bound to die, its red feathers would be spotted with black. If a person was brimming with happiness, the fingertips they used to cover their mouths would radiate a bright, sunny yellow.

At the moment, as strange as it might sound to others, the voice that called out to you reminded you of the creaky floorboards that groaned under your father's weight as he entered the house after a hard day. Blue on the porch, but within the brick walls: red, the same shade as the dinner table cloth that often became more interesting than meeting your family's gaze.

It was a voice that jolted you back to reality and made you turn your head with a sense of urgency, away from the flowers and the vomit. It was a voice that belonged to Nurse Jungwoo.

Blue was stitched to the courteous tilt of his head when he greeted the other nurses and staff, the soft-spoken words he used to comfort manic patients, and the gentle touch of his hands while administering medication. But you had observed a shift in him sometimes, particularly when he'd watch people engage in heated squabbles over dumplings left on the lunch tray or when he had to bathe former soldiers haunted by the ghosts of their pasts—his normally calm demeanor would turn a burning red, his eyes narrowing and lips pressing into a tight line as he fought against the men’s screams and pushes.

The transformation led you to ponder if one day you might see these white labyrinthine corridors stained with the purple hue of his frustration, or if you might stand at the end of a confessional room and see his purple fingers wrapped around a gun, pulling the trigger without hesitation. Just like your father had done.

"Are you okay, Dr. Song?" Yoon's voice held an awkward concern. His usual shy smile, the one that reminded you of a child peeking out from behind their mother's skirt, was replaced by a worried frown. "You've been sitting there for a while now. Can I get you some water? Or maybe a cup of chamomile tea from the cafeteria? It's surprisingly good, you know. They just got a new brand— Twinings, I think it's called. Very soothing."

After glancing at his outstretched hand, its end slightly stained with the pale blue ink from the Bic Cristal ballpoint pen he preferred for taking notes, you looked at his face and then at your heels, partly covered in grass and dirt.

Politely rejecting his offer of assistance as well as his worried smile, you got up, dusting the dirt off your coat. His concern was touching, but unnecessary. You gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder to let him know that you were grateful, though.

Fishing a battered packet of Marlboro cigarettes from your pocket, you realized you'd been more than a week without smoking—you had sworn to yourself that this time you were quitting for good. But, hey, here you were, faltering already.

You lit one, irritated with yourself. Any therapist worth their salt would see smoking as an unresolved dependency—something that should've been dealt with and overcome long ago.

"You sure I don't have another patient to attend to now?"

Grass crunched beneath your heels as you shifted your weight, the vomit now concealed beneath a layer of disturbed soil.

With an arched brow, you watched as Jungwoo curled into himself, his hands disappearing into the pocket of his pale green scrubs. You knew why. Your gaze was a soft, heavy paw on him. But if the paw was soft, it took it all away, like that of a cat that hurriedly grabbed a mouse's tail. The drop of sweat went down through his nose and beautiful mouth, dividing his smile in half. Just that: without an expression, under your mascara coated eyelashes, you were looking at him.

"So…" You leaned against the wall, the cold bricks biting into your back. Your lab coat rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin above your waistband. You noticed Jungwoo's eyes flick down, then quickly back up, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"Oh… Yes, yes!" Jungwoo responded, bouncing on the balls of his feet, one hand still tucked behind his back. His other hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous tic you'd observed before. "I apologize, Dr. Song. You do indeed have a new patient, though I don't believe it's one you will be particularly eager to attend to."

Your lips curled up in a humorless smile as you took another puff of your cigarette. "I'm never eager to attend to criminals, Jong. So, who's the unlucky soul that has the pleasure of my company next?"

“Officer Hwa brought this one from the maximum-security jail downtown. The one in barbed wire and manned by guards that look like they eat nails for breakfast?" Yoon attempted humor, but it fell flat, and his eyes flickered with regret.

“And?”

“Well... It's… Seo Moonjo.”

Psychopathy, in bygone times, was synonymous with the concept of "evil." Individuals who reveled in inflicting harm or death on others have been chronicled since the time Medea took up an axe against her own offspring, and likely even prior to that. In 1888, the same year Jack the Ripper held London in the grip of terror, a German psychiatrist coined the term "psychopath" from the German word psychopatische, literally translating to "suffering soul."

This clue—the idea of suffering—was your gateway into understanding that these monsters were also in anguish. Viewing them as victims rather than perpetrators enabled a more rational, compassionate approach in your dealings. Psychopathy or sadism didn't just spring into existence from nothingness. They were not viruses, randomly infecting someone out of the blue. They bore a history, a prelude rooted in childhood.

Your belief was that experiences such as bruising knees from running in the backyard or losing a tooth soon to be claimed by the Tooth Fairy, were reactive. This means that to truly empathize with another human being, we ourselves must first be shown empathy—most importantly, by our parents or caregivers.

And Moonjo? Seo Moonjo seemed the type of man that naive young girls would send love letters to, sealed with their cheapest lipstick or a pair of lace panties. Because, despite his monstrous deeds, his square jawline, sharp features, and the way his tailored suits highlighted his lean physique rendered him attractive in the eyes of many.

Just yesterday, after returning home exhausted, brain pounding on your skull because Min Ju couldn't bring himself to sign the divorce papers, feet bloated, you watched in the news as women who had once trusted him with their children's dental care were now protesting in front of the prison. They claimed he was an angel, a helper sent by God.

But, hell no. Moonjo was no angel. He was a beast, a wolf in sheep's clothing, concealing his true nature behind the pristine white of his doctor's coat. His dental procedures were carried out with a precision that was unnerving. Seo Moonjo was a cannibal, a murderer, and a pyromaniac who eradicated his adoptive family in a spectacle of blood and fire.

Of course, you had dug deep into his case, folded the paper news, and pushed it in between the convenience store bench's slats. It was what your mother called a scandal sheet, full of the local murders he had committed and fake suicides and beatings and robbings, and just about every page about the deceased twins and that weird porn addicted man that lived with Moonjo in the Eden Studio had a half-naked lady on it with her breasts surging over the edge of her dress and her legs arranged so you could see to her stocking top or cats with their small, shiny guts exposed in trash bags.

From this extensive research, you suspected that there had been no one in his life—a caring grandmother, a favorite uncle, a benevolent neighbor, or a mindful teacher—to see his pain, to acknowledge it, and to help him process it. Anger, fear, and shame were too dangerous for the small child to deal with on his own. He didn't know how to deal with such emotions, so he didn't. Instead, he disowned these feelings; he didn't allow himself to experience them. He sacrificed his true self, along with all that unfelt pain and anger, to the Underworld, to the murky world of the unconscious.

This resulted in him losing touch with who he really was. The man, who was impeccably polite, genial, and charming, was provoked somehow. And the terrified child inside him lashed out in response, reaching for a knife and a lighter.

Moonjo could be a suffering soul.

Right?

Damn it. Just stop. You're already pushed to your limits, and you can't afford to shoulder his case either.

“Look, honey. I'm already swamped with other patients. It's just not feasible to add Seo Moonjo to my already overflowing plate. Can you imagine the added stress?" You mutter, eyes squinted shut, as you picture the growing pile of patient files on your desk. "Remember that Kwon guy? The one who had a schizophrenic episode and killed someone? Or that Kyung girl who defended herself against her rapist? Those were hard, sure. But Moonjo—he's on another level. He's someone who has committed a series of heinous acts and revels in them. This isn't like juggling a couple of extra appointments or adding a few more hours to my workday. This is like... like... stepping into a goddamn war zone without any armor!"

Suddenly, as you started to pace around the garden, an idea struck you. Your eyes snapped open, the cigarette almost fell from your lips and you swiftly turned to Jungwoo, who was watching you with wide eyes. "You remember that doctor, don't you? That one with the crooked nose?"

“Dr. Jung Hyun-Jae?”

“Yes, yes… Dr. Jung would be a more suitable choice for this case. He's been needing more challenging assignments, hasn’t he? It would be a perfect opportunity for him to sink his teeth into a complex case. Plus, it might distract him from his recent fixation with Nurse Ioona. She's been complaining about his constant attention. Where's Officer Hwa? I need to explain the situation to her and suggest Dr. Jung as an alternative.

Jungwoo’s eyes darted around nervously before he settled them on a pretty lavender (how ironic it was, right?) from the garden. He reached out for it and gently twirled the stem between his fingers. “Well… Officer Hwa left. She did want to speak with you and rambled about how you were the only one capable of handling Seo Moonjo, but… I noticed you sneaking out through the fire emergency door and figured you were trying to avoid any additional work or confrontations. So I went ahead and filled out Moonjo’s report. Your first meeting with him is scheduled for today. It's on your wall calendar, right under the post-it note about picking up milk and eggs.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the news catching you off guard.

This son of a bitch. Motherfucker. Idiot.

You clenched your fists to stop the urge to transform him into a purple puddle of limbs for real now. He was still new, still learning the ropes. And there was a good intention behind his actions. So, instead of lashing out at him, you sighed heavily and crushed your cigarette beneath your heels. You were in for a long day.

"Alright. Just...alright. But I'll need to juggle my schedule around, shuffle some patients here and there. This is going to be like solving a Rubik's cube blindfolded.” You muttered, rubbing your temples with the base of your palms, the onset of a stress-induced headache making itself known.

“He's out on the patio. Chained to four officers and three nurses because he asserted his right to a smoke break. Should I fetch him while you change your coat and prepare yourself for the consultation?" Jungwoo asked, his gaze shifting from the crushed purple petals in his hand to your clothes.

Change?

Looking down, you noticed the stain of vomit on the fabric of your lab coat, a gift from your husband on your first day at work. It had your name, Dr. Song Y/N, stitched in an elegant script on the left pocket. Fuck. Fucking great!

“Please, honey. And bring me some black coffee if you can; make it extra strong. I hate tea, it reminds me of the cough syrup my mother used to force down my throat as a child," you replied to Nurse Yoon without even looking at him again. Blood had risen to your face, now so hot that you thought you were with your eyes injected, while he, probably in new deception, should think that you were colored because of the cold wind.

What type of image were you inside his bambi eyes? A grieving mother or an insolent doctor?

Let's spin the Lucky Wheel, shall we, Mrs. Song?

Jungwoo, ever the diligent worker and one not to mingle in your business, had the courtesy to look sheepish as he handed over a thick manila folder (one that you weren't sure you had seen him bringing with him) stamped with the words "CONFIDENTIAL: SEO MOONJO.".

"I will, of course. But, first, here's the case file, Dr. Song. I've highlighted the most important parts," he said, extending the massive file towards you as if it were a bomb about to explode. The folder was thicker than the latest edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, a psychiatric bible that you often referenced. Its contents, as you anticipated, were likely far more disturbing.

"Thank you, Yoon. I appreciate it," you sighed, taking the heavy folder from him. You opened it, your eyes scanning over the pages filled with police reports, psychiatric evaluations, and a collection of distressing photographs that made your stomach churn. All evidence of Moonjo's crimes.

"Also," Yoon continued, biting his lower lip in a nervous habit you were becoming all too familiar with, "I've arranged for some extra security during your consultation with him. Officer Hwa insisted, said it was non-negotiable. I hope that's alright."

You nodded, appreciating the concern, although you couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance. The last thing you needed was more people watching and more eyes to witness your struggle to maintain control. But you understood—the higher-ups wanted to ensure no harm would come to their staff at the hands of a dangerous psychopath.

Or maybe they just didn't want another bloody body in this institution and lawsuits on their hands.

After a significant period spent working within the asylum, it became evident to you that even in a place of death, there existed a social hierarchy. In comparison to the general hospital wings, the accommodations located in the main building were significantly larger and more expensive. Suites were rooms named after well-known Seoulites that had once been in the psychiatric unit, home to one of Korea's most notorious sociopaths. The Bah Suah suite was where Seo Moonjo was staying. To get there, one had to navigate past the under-stair canteen, home to vending machines offering various food and drink options and hard plastic chairs.

What was most crucial, however, was shedding this ugly uniform.

Your office was located in the oldest, most decrepit part of the hospital. Spiderwebs clung to the corners, and several corridor light bulbs were burned out.

As soon as you turned the doorknob, the door creaked open. The first thing that prompted a slight smile was the smell inside. It was distinct from the rest of the hospital. It didn't reek of antiseptic or bleach; instead, it oddly reminded me of an art gallery. A blend of canvas, paints and brushes, varnish, and wax. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dimness, revealing an unfinished artwork leaning against the wall—an unexpected object within a hospital. About twenty metal art shelves stood out in the shadows, and on a table, a pile of both your sketches and those of patients towered upwards—an unstable tower of paper reaching for the sky.

It had been a considerable amount of time since you had leaned over a canvas, staining your fingertips and the tip of your nose with hues of color. The inspiration simply wasn't there anymore. The paintings gradually lost their meaning. Even when Min Ju would sit in a chair and watch you work after a shift at the firm, nothing changed.

For years, even before your marriage, you enjoyed painting his face. Strong jawline, pronounced cheekbones, elegant nose—sitting under the spotlight—he resembled a statue. A hero. However, something was off nowadays, and you couldn't tell what. Perhaps you were forcing the issue. You couldn't capture the shape of his eyes or their color accurately. The first thing you noticed about your husband when you met was the sparkle in his eyes—like a tiny diamond embedded in each iris. But now, you couldn't capture it. Without corresponding to his entire face, the brown eyes were intraducible. As independent as if they were planted in the flesh of an arm, and from there they looked at you: open, wet.

It might be a lack of talent, or maybe Min possesses something more that doesn't translate into a painting anymore. It all came out lifeless every single time.

Well, maybe because that was what he had become for you: a dead entity, lifeless, a walking shadow that prefers clandestine meetings with the girl next door—Kim Ji-ah, the one who sold Dabang coffee from her little shop—rather than signing the divorce papers and emptying your house of his remnants. You yearned for him to take his collection of smelly socks, stained shirts—and god, those lipstick marks that were an egregious shade of red—and just leave. Useless.

Dropping the huge file somewhere in the mess and slipping into a fresh coat, you caught a glimpse of the note left by Jungwoo. Precisely where he promised it would be. Pinned to the wall calendar, right beneath the post-it note about the local grocery store—a place you could never bring yourself to enter, not without your gaze drifting towards the adjacent drug store, contemplating the prospect of acquiring an unhealthy amount of Paracetamol.

"Consultation 1. Seo Moonjo at 3 p.m." accompanied by a cartoonish drawing of a devil's face and a pitchfork in red marker—the kind of doodle one would expect from a schoolboy, not a professional nurse. You couldn't help but laugh at the irony of it.

Stepping out of your office, you felt the familiar cold air of the hospital corridors creep into your bones. The aged linoleum floor creaked under your weight as you made your way towards the Bah Suah suite. It was a walk you had done countless times, but with the impending consultation with Seo Moonjo, it felt different, heavier.

Navigating through the maze-like corridors, you passed by the under-stair canteen, which was buzzing with the sound of vending machines dispensing Lotte Choco Pies and cans of Chilsung Cider. Nurses and staff were huddled in corners, whispering about the latest hospital gossip over cups of instant coffee. Their eyes flickered towards you, hushed whispers growing quieter as you walked past them. You paid them no mind.

Just as you rounded the corner of the last hallway, you almost collided with Nurse Park Ji-Yeon, a recent graduate of Yonsei University's Nursing Program. Her arms were filled with a stainless steel tray laden with countless medication cups and water glasses and you noticed how her hands were stained lime green. Youthfulness, naivety and playfulness.

“Dr. Song, I didn't... I didn't expect to see you here," she stammered, her cheeks flushing a red that was reminiscent of the cherry blossoms that adorned the hospital grounds in the spring. You admired Ji-Yeon's work ethic and dedication; her timidity was often eclipsed by her eagerness to learn and assist patients. She was like a mirror image of your younger self, fresh-faced and pretty much graced with green.

"You need to watch where you're going, Ji-Yeon. Those are important medications you're holding," you advised her, bending down to pick up a bottle of pills that had rolled under a rusted hospital bed. Sertraline, prescribed to Mr. Kim in Song Joong Ki. You placed it back on her tray, ensuring it was secure.

"I will, Dr. Song. I apologize," she replied, bowing as charmingly as she could muster while equilibrating glasses of water. "I was just heading to administer afternoon medications to the patients in Ward C when… I heard about your consultation with Seo Moonjo," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if the mere mention of Moonjo's name would summon him. Her eyes flickered at the closed door where the meeting would happen. “Is it true that he...that he indulges in...cannibalism?"

Your fingers massage your temples, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes. Great. The rumors about Moonjo were spreading rapidly in the hospital's atmosphere like a malignant tumor . "We shouldn't speculate about patients, Ji-Yeon. It's unprofessional and contrary to the Hippocratic Oath we took."

"But he's a monster, isn't he?"

"Every patient, regardless of their actions, is a human being first and foremost, Ji-Yeon. The term 'monster' has no place in the lexicon of a healthcare provider. It's our duty to provide care and treatment without judgment or prejudice."

You’re so hypocritical, Y/N.

"But what about the things he's done? The people he's hurt?"

"Even so," you retorted, "our job is to heal, not to pass judgment. Justice is the court's responsibility, not ours. We are here to ensure that he is physically healthy and to provide the medical aid he requires."

Before she could respond, you waved her off dismissively, effectively ending the conversation. "Now, get going. Those medications won't be administered themselves. And who knows, Seo Moonjo might be coming to look for his pills," you admonished, leaving the young woman standing alone in the corridor, her mouth agape in stunned silence.

Two minutes later, you arrived at the Bah Suah suite, the heavy metal door cold under your touch, signaling that the old AC was already running. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for the consultation and pushed open the door, stepping into the room that soon would hold the man known as the 'Cannibal Dentist' of Seoul.

The therapy room was a small and narrow rectangle, as empty as a prison cell, or maybe even more so. The window, barred, remained closed. On the little table, a shocking pink box of Kleenex tissues stood in stark contrast with its cheerful color—it must have been left there by Mrs. Chen; you couldn't imagine Jungwoo offering tissues to the patients.

You sat in one of the two faded and battered Eames lounge chairs. Minutes passed. No sign of Moonjo. What if he didn't show up? Maybe he hadn't agreed to meet you yet; maybe he hadn't finished his pack of Marlboro. And he'd be totally within his rights.

Impatient, anxious, nervous, you gave up sitting and suddenly stood up and went to the window. You looked out through the bars of the grid. The yard was three floors below. The size of a tennis court, it was bounded by large exposed brick walls, too high to be climbed, although undoubtedly someone had already tried. Every afternoon, the patients were led there to get fresh air for half an hour, whether they wanted to or not, and in this cold weather, it would be understandable if they resisted. Some isolated themselves, talking to themselves, or walked back and forth like restless zombies, going nowhere. Others formed groups, chatting, smoking, arguing. Voices, shouts, strange excited laughter reached you.

At first, your eyes failed to pick him out. It was only after scanning over the throng of people that you spotted him - a tall figure, as pale as the moonlight, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall of the patio. A predator perfectly at ease in the midst of his prey.

Jungwoo navigated his way through the crowd, making a beeline for him. He exchanged a few words with the nurse stationed closest to the infamous serial killer - a petite woman named Eun-ji with a heart-shaped face and a sharp bob cut that framed her face. She nodded, her eyes wide behind her rectangular glasses.

Yoon approached Moonjo with extreme caution much like a wary zookeeper approaching a particularly unpredictable animal. You knew exactly what he would say, you had rehearsed it with him other times. He would inform the towering man that you, the in-house therapist, had requested a meeting with him. He would emphasize that it was a request, not an order.

Moonjo remained as still as a statue as Jungwoo spoke, offering no indication of agreement or refusal. That was a good sign, you thought.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Yoon Jungwoo turned on his heel and retreated, his hands buried in the pockets of his scrubs. A sinking feeling of defeat washed over you - he wasn't coming. You berated yourself internally for being so naive. This had been a colossal waste of time and energy, and you had missed your precious 30-minute power nap for this fiasco.

But just as you were on the brink of surrendering to your disappointment, to your utter surprise, Moonjo stirred. He took a step forward, following the retreating figures of the policemen and nurses across the courtyard until they were swallowed up by the hospital’s imposing structure.

So, he was coming after all. You cleaned your hands in your jeans and put your hands on your knees to stop your legs from bouncing. You tried to quieten the nagging voice in your head, the voice that sounded uncannily like your father, chastising you for not being good enough, calling you a fraud, asserting that a woman's place was in bed, awaiting her husband's return from work, naked and submissive.

Shut up, you thought, repeating it over and over: Shut up, shut up…

Two or three minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," you called out.

As the door creaked open, the personification of the monstrous deeds you had meticulously studied in countless newspaper clippings and confidential case files stepped into the room. His imposing figure, garbed in the standard-issue uniform of the Westlake Psychiatric Ward—a drab ensemble of worn-out hues that could only aspire to be called beige—filled the doorway. His eyes, the first thing you notice, were a striking shade of obsidian and held an unsettling gleam as they flickered over the confines of the consultation room before settling on you.

Words precede and overtake you; they tempt you and change you, and if you're not careful, it will be too late. Things will be said without you having said them. Or, at least, it wasn't just that. Your entanglement comes from the fact that a carpet is made up of so many threads that it can't resign itself to following just one thread. Your entanglement comes from the fact that this story is made up of many stories. And not all of them can be told—a truer word could, from echo to echo, bring your high glaciers crashing down the gorge. So you will no longer speak of the drain that was in you while he was staring at your face. Otherwise, you will think about how headlines or news articles could never do justice to the presence he commanded. His skin was luminous, almost translucent—a canvas of alabaster with the occasional vein peeking through the surface, like coloured threads embedded in white marble. He was a statue that came to life.

Moonjo’s raven hair, unconventional in its length for a man, covered his nape and framed his forehead in an innocent way. His smile, filled with teeth, was clear of any obstructions, allowing you to glimpse the unique shape of his insanity—water and desert, populace and wilderness, abundance and need, fear and challenge. Moonjo has in himself the eloquence and the absurd mudness, the surprise and the antiquity, the refinement and the roughness. Moonjo is baroque.

Still, right now, he is the first thing in your whole life that you look at and see no ounce or mention of color.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Song.”

"Good."

You locked eyes with him, noting the spark of anticipation dancing in his gaze, before shifting your attention to the small assembly of officers and medical staff flanking him. Jungwoo is curling into himself while holding a paper bag from the cafeteria in his hand. This wouldn't do. Screw Officer Hwa and her requests; you wouldn't attend to someone while being vigilated like this.

Officer Park Seo-Jin, a woman as stern as the harshest Spartan matron, with her sharp, hawk-like features and a redish hair and attitude that brooked no nonsense, met your gaze. Adjacent to her stood Nurse Lee Min-Ho, a fresh addition to the hospital staff, nervously clutching a clipboard. He was a blue one.

Maintaining your gaze on Officer Park, you said in a firm voice, "Officer Park, I would like to conduct this consultation with Mr. Seo in privacy. You and your team may wait outside, perhaps in the waiting area. There's a coffee machine that makes a decent brew."

The officers exchanged surprised glances, clearly taken aback by your request. Officer Park's frown deepened, her lips forming a thin line as she locked eyes with you. "Dr. Song, with all due respect, I don't think that's a good idea. Given his history and Officer Hwa’s requests, it's better if we—"

"I understand your concerns, Officer Park, but I assure you, I can handle myself. I've been trained to do so. I believe Mr. Seo here can attest to that."

Moonjo tilted his head and smiled like the Cheshire cat as he noticed the thick file on the table behind you, eyes traveling over it greedily, like a grade-schooler staring at a chocolate fountain. He knows what lies inside. And he was fucking entertained. "She's right. I don't bite...unless provoked."

Officer Park looked like she was about to argue further as she shot a glare at Moonjo—a glare so icy it could rival the sub-zero temperatures of the Arctic tundra—but you held up a hand, stopping her.

"I appreciate your vigilance, but I've dealt with patients similar to Mr. Seo before. My training is extensive and comprehensive. I know what I'm doing. Please wait outside."

After a moment of silence, Officer Park reluctantly agreed, her gaze lingering on you with a mixture of concern and admiration. "Let’s go then, boys. Out we go, or Miss Cold here will chop our heads off," she grumbled, shuffling towards the door. She paused at the threshold, her hand on the knob, before turning back to look at you. "You call us the second he steps out of line, you hear?"

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, the officers and nurses filed out of the room and as the door closed behind them, Jungwoo handed you a cup of black coffee, brewed with beans from a local roaster. The mug was warm in your hands, the black liquid inside steaming and swirling. It was just as you liked it—strong and bitter.

"Thank you, Jungwoo," you said, accepting the coffee. "And...thank you for understanding."

With a nod and a faint, yellow smile, Jungwoo retreated. He cast a last glance at you and Moonjo, his brows furrowed in worry, before finally disappearing behind the door.

As the door closed behind Seo Moonjo with a dull thud for the second time, echoing through the empty therapy room, the canvases on the wall seemed to lean in curiously, like ghosts that had seen better days. He walked with a hunched gait, shoulders slightly rounded, hands clasped together behind his back—an unsettling calmness about him that chilled you to your very core. Now, just the two of you, the air felt colder than before he entered, like he brought along a personal blizzard that set your nerves on edge.

Slowly, he takes a seat across from you, his legs crossed at the knee elegantly, like an art model posing for a painting session. His hands were large, rugged and bruised with what looked like fresh scratches from tools or rope. It took all of your self-control not to recoil at the sight of them. He leaned forward slightly, folding those monstrous hands on the table between you, atop a worn-out copy of Freud's 'The Interpretation of Dreams', and locked eyes with yours - unblinking, unwavering.

A moment passed where neither of you moved or spoke. You could feel his eyes raking over your face, examining every line and shadow on your own. It was disconcerting how easily he made eye contact. You forced yourself to return it, resisting the urge to shield yourself with your pencil and notepad. You wished you could paint over this unnerving moment, transform it into a stunning piece of art, and hang it in the vibrant hallways of the Louvre rather than being trapped in this dreary room.

Therapy is not your forte; art is your passion. But here you are, trying to understand this man who's been called a monster by everyone outside these walls. Inside them too? Who knows? Maybe there's more to him than meets the eye... or maybe they're all just stories that should never be told in this place that reeks of silence and stares back at you like a judgmental wallflower no matter what you do or say next to Seo Moonjo right now.

"Well then, Mr. Seo. Shall we begin?"

“Of course, jagiya.”

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