The echo of our footsteps seems unnaturally loud in the empty building as our team moves through the hallways. The usual buzz of activity, the constant movement of officers and staff that typically fills these corridors - it's all absent.
"This isn't right," Han mutters, his hand resting on his holstered weapon. "Where is everyone? There should at least be security staff on duty."
I nod, feeling the same unease. Even on weekends or late nights, a building housing high-ranking officers like Choi always has some personnel present.
Detective Kim's voice comes through our earpieces, tense and low. "First floor sweep complete. No signs of anyone."
"Second floor clear too," Detective Lee reports.
We reach Choi's floor, the silence becoming oppressive. The fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting moving shadows that make us all jumpy.
"Spread out," Han orders quietly. "Check every room. But stay in radio contact."
As our team disperses, Han and I approach Choi's office. The nameplate on his door gleams dully in the artificial light: "Senior Superintendent Choi."
I try the handle - it's unlocked. Another red flag.
"This feels like a trap," I whisper to Han.
He nods grimly. "Probably is. But we still have to go in."
We enter the office, weapons drawn. Everything looks perfectly normal - desk neat and organized, chairs properly arranged, not a paper out of place. It's as if everyone just vanished, leaving everything untouched.
"Too perfect," Han says, echoing my thoughts. "Check everything. Every drawer, every file cabinet."
As we begin our search, the silence of the building weighs on us like a physical presence. Somewhere in the darkness, I can't shake the feeling that something is watching us, waiting.
The unnatural emptiness of the building seems to mock our efforts as we continue our search, each passing moment ratcheting up the tension.
"Sir!" Detective Lee's voice crackles through our earpieces. "Third floor, east wing. I think I found—"
A blood-curdling scream cuts through his transmission, followed by static.
"Lee? Lee!" Han shouts into his radio. No response.
We exchange quick glances before sprinting towards the stairwell. The rest of the team converges from different directions, all of us heading for the third floor.
I grab the stairwell door handle - it's ice cold. As we rush up the stairs, our footsteps echoing in the confined space, I notice the temperature dropping with each floor we climb.
"East wing," Han pants as we reach the third floor. "Stay together!"
The hallway stretches before us, dimly lit and seemingly endless. Some of the fluorescent lights are flickering, creating disorienting patterns of shadow and light.
We move as one unit, weapons drawn, towards Lee's last known location. The cold is intense now, our breath visible in the air.
"Door to door," Han orders quietly. "Be ready for anything."
As we systematically check each room, the silence is broken only by our controlled breathing and the soft sound of doors opening. No sign of Lee.
Then we hear it - a soft whimpering coming from one of the conference rooms ahead.
Han signals the team to hold position as we approach the door. The sound grows clearer - definitely human, but something about it seems wrong.
Han counts down silently with his fingers. Three, two, one...
We burst through the door, weapons raised, ready for whatever awaits us on the other side.
The fluorescent light in the conference room flickers violently, casting strobing shadows across a scene that makes my blood run cold. The metallic tang of blood fills my nostrils before my eyes can even process what I'm seeing.
Lee lies crumpled near the center of the room, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. A dark pool spreads beneath him, soaking into the industrial carpet. His radio lies shattered nearby, explaining the sudden cut in transmission.
But it's the figure standing over him that freezes us all in place. A man towers in the far corner, barely visible in the shadows. The flickering light catches the curved edge of a sickle in his hand, fresh blood dripping steadily from its blade onto the carpet with a rhythmic pat... pat... pat...
"Drop the weapon!" Han's voice thunders through the room, his gun trained steadily on the shadowy figure. The rest of our team fans out, creating a semicircle of drawn weapons.
The man doesn't move. Doesn't speak. The windows behind him have been covered with what looks like black paint, leaving him backlit by only the failing fluorescent light. His stillness is unnatural - no shifting of weight, no visible breathing. Just that steady pat... pat... pat... of blood from the sickle.
"I said drop it!" Han shouts again, taking a step forward. "On your knees, hands where we can see them!"
A low chuckle emerges from the darkness, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The temperature in the room plummets further, and the fluorescent light gives one final violent flicker before plunging us into near-total darkness.
The sound of dripping blood continues in the blackness, growing louder with each drop.
As our eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through gaps in the painted windows, details of the man emerge that make my stomach turn. What I first took for shadows on his skin are actually dark, mottled patches - areas where the flesh seems to be literally rotting away, revealing glimpses of something darker underneath. Rashes crawl across his exposed skin like angry red vines, weeping clear fluid in places.
His face is a nightmare made flesh. Yellowed teeth hang loosely in grey gums, some missing entirely, leaving dark gaps in a twisted smile. What's left of his hair clings to his scalp in patchy clumps, revealing crusty, scabbed skin beneath. Where hair has fallen away completely, the scalp is marked with more of those hideous rashes, some appearing almost black in the low light.
The clothes hanging from his gaunt frame might have once been farming gear - overalls and a thick shirt - but now they're rotted and stained beyond recognition. Dark patches spread across the fabric like spilled ink, and the edges are fraying into threads that seem to move of their own accord in the still air. The smell emanating from him is overwhelming - a sickly sweet mixture of decay and something else, something chemical and wrong.
Every few seconds, a tooth or clump of hair falls from him, landing with soft, wet sounds on the carpet. Yet he stands unnaturally still, holding that blood-dripping sickle with unwavering steadiness. His eyes, when I can finally make them out, are the worst part - milky white but somehow alert, tracking our movements with predatory focus.
The sight is so wrong, so fundamentally unnatural, that my brain struggles to process it. This isn't just a man who's ill or unkempt - he looks like something that crawled out of a grave, a corpse animated by some terrible force that mocks the very concept of life.
"Jesus Christ," someone whispers behind me, and I hear the sound of retching.
Han's gun hasn't wavered, but I can see sweat beading on his forehead despite the unnatural cold. "Whatever you are," he says, his voice steady but tight, "don't move."
The rotting figure's jaw works slowly, like rusted machinery coming to life. A wet, gurgling sound emerges before forming into words. His voice is like gravel being crushed, each syllable seeming to cause him pain.
"This is... wrong," he mumbles, swaying slightly. Yellowish fluid dribbles from the corner of his mouth. "This is a wrong place..."
His milky eyes dart around the room as if seeing something we can't. The sickle trembles in his grip, sending droplets of blood spattering across the floor.
"I can't stop," he continues, his voice rising with a note of desperation. "He said... he said he will save me." Another tooth falls from his mouth, clicking against the floor. "I have to meet him. Have to meet him..."
The room falls into complete silence. Even the sound of dripping blood seems to pause. For a moment, everything is perfectly still - a tableau frozen in this nightmare.
Then his face contorts into something inhuman - jaw unhinging, those milky eyes rolling back - and a shriek tears through the air that sounds nothing like anything a human throat should produce. The sickle arcs up as he launches himself toward me with impossible speed, rotting flesh and bits of clothing peeling away from his body with the sudden movement.
I have a fraction of a second to register the gleam of the blade rushing toward my face, the overwhelming stench of decay, and those terrible blank eyes fixed on mine-
His jaw stretches unnaturally wide as he shrieks, more teeth falling loose with the force of his scream.
"MOVE AWAY!" he howls, the sound distorted by his decaying mouth. More of that yellowish fluid sprays from his lips. "I HAVE TO GO! HAVE TO GO NOW!"
The sickle slashes wildly through the air as he charges forward, not seeming to aim at anyone specifically but rather trying to clear a path. His rotting body moves with a terrible desperate energy.
"I'M ALREADY LATE!" The scream is almost hysterical now, panic mixing with something else - terror? Devotion? His milky eyes are wide and frenzied. "HE'S WAITING! I'M LATE! LATE! LATE!"