Four women had gone missing around the county, no bodies, no survivors. The case was classified as a violent serial murder.
When I learned about it, I posted my dad's case details on the most prominent true-crime forum in the country.
Except, I changed my dad's gender.
In my post, my father became a brand-new female victim.
I disguised my dad's hit-and-run as one of the serial murders.
I leveraged the serial killer case's notoriety to boost attention on this case, drawing in passionate true-crime enthusiasts—
Was this the work of the serial killer, or a copycat hitchhiking on the original's momentum?
Because my dad's case details didn't match the previous victims, the forum erupted in endless debate.
But while some genuinely analyzed the case, most questioned its authenticity.
The post teetered under a barrage of reports and insults.
Until late one night, while refreshing the thread, I saw a reply from someone with the handle "Ryosuke."
"I reviewed all the scene photos you collected. Comparing collection times to the incident, only one tire mark matches the time of the crash."
"The vehicle was likely... a 4.2-meter box truck."
8
My hand trembled against the screen.
I grabbed onto that single lifeline like a drowning person, replying to Ryosuke over and over, asking how he knew.
The guy was arrogant.
He said he was a car enthusiast.
He chose the name Ryosuke because he loved speed and had never been caught.
Two wheels, four wheels, six wheels—he knew them all.
He'd never be wrong about a vehicle.
But just confirming the vehicle type was far from enough. The police had probably figured this out long ago.
Besides...
One: the serial murder victims disappeared from different locations, suggesting the perpetrator operated across the county without a pattern—making it unlikely they'd pass the same road twice.
Two: the earlier cases were committed cleanly. Either the killer was extremely strong, or they worked as a team, leaving victims no chance to resist. Yet this time, a body was left behind—more consistent with a simple hit-and-run.
Ryosuke's reply came at three in the morning, after which he went silent.
I understood his meaning.
He was gently pointing out that my case was fabricated.
But that was fine. At least I'd taken the first step.
9
I went with the simplest method.
During the day, I continued canvassing the area, trying to collect footage from shops along the route.
At night, I waited on that road for every 4.2-meter box truck to pass.
Then I'd pretend to be injured, flag one down, study the driver, and assess whether he was the killer.
I set myself a deadline: one year.
As long as the driver was local, as long as he still used this road.
I would find him. I knew I would.
He had killed my father with the most ordinary method.
I would catch him with the most stubborn method.
To that end, I'd made every preparation.
Day-and-night physical training. A dagger concealed in my sleeve. A blade taped to my lower back. A fine-mist pepper spray strapped to my thigh. Sedative pills sewn into my bra.
I turned myself into a hunter on twenty-four-hour standby.
But I had no idea then what kind of nightmare that decision would drag me into.
It was a cold night, just past midnight.
A box truck with unfamiliar plates finally rolled to a stop in front of me.
10
The 4.2-meter truck was battered and dirty, its headlights dim.
I stood in the middle of the road, waving frantically.
By the time the headlights blinded me, I heard the engine cut.
A square-jawed, middle-aged man rolled down the window, cigarette dangling, and called out: "What're you doing, girl?"
I squinted, pointed at my foot, and called back: "I hurt my foot. Can you give me a ride, mister?"
The man checked the empty road front and back, then nodded and said: "Hop in."
I thanked him and hobbled into the cab.
It was cluttered and reeked of smoke.
I studied the driver—he was in his thirties, powerfully built, with muscular shoulders that came from years of physical labor.
When I looked up, I found his round, bulging eyes already sizing me up.
I flinched instinctively.
"Let's go, kid."
He finally started driving, chatting with me off and on.
I told him I was twenty, home from school, lived in the next county. I said I'd gone out exploring and twisted my ankle. The road was desolate; I couldn't even find a cab.
He wasn't interested in my story. His gaze kept drifting over me with a predatory quality.
I'd seen that look on three other drivers before, but none as brazen as his.
A shiver ran through me.
The man reached over and placed his hand on my thigh.
At the same time, he turned and leered: "How about... we have some fun?"
My gaze dropped. I froze.
On his index finger, he wore my father's wedding ring.
Platinum, with a ring of dull diamonds. An understated, refined design that clashed completely with this man.
I gathered myself and smiled at him.
"Pull over," I said.
11
The moment I said it, his face lit up with eager surprise.
He hit the brakes immediately, pulling the truck to the roadside.
At the same time, he knocked twice on the wall behind the cab—as if signaling something.
It was a deserted stretch of road. The asphalt was cracked and buckled, flanked by endless fields of straw.
Beyond that, infinite darkness.
"Come on!!"
With the truck parked, the man lunged at me like an impatient animal, biting at my neck.
Pain. And disgust.
But I still wrapped my arms around his waist.
Then I whispered: "On the night of September tenth, you killed someone, didn't you?"
The man froze, slowly lifting his head.
I raised my arm from around his waist and gently held his head, bringing our eyes level.
He frowned. "What?"
I said: "A man. Thin, tall, pale-skinned. You might not have seen him clearly. On the road where I just flagged you down."
The man slowly shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I said: "I'm his daughter."
He said: "So?"
I said: "So can you give me back his ring?"
The man's pupils constricted instantly.
I felt his entire body tense.
I held the same position.
One hand cradling his head, locking his gaze to mine.
The other arm still around his waist.
And in that hand, the dagger I'd hidden in my sleeve.
I drove it forward.
Feeling the blade sink into his lower back, watching the light fade from his eyes.
12
When the man collapsed against me, I thought it was over.
It was perhaps thirty seconds. During that time, my memories flashed rapidly—years of suffering, debts of consequence—and then everything dissolved into weightless calm.
I thought about killing myself.
But looking at the endless road, I realized I should visit my father's grave first and tell him his daughter had done it.
So I gritted my teeth, hoisted the man's heavy corpse, opened the door, and prepared to load the body into the cargo area so I could drive to the cemetery.
But the moment I opened the cargo door, I froze.
Inside the cargo area was a stack of cages.
And inside those cages, medium-to-large dogs, barking furiously.
And then I saw the most terrifying sight of my life.
From the depths of the cargo area, two skinless hands pushed a cage aside.
A man who looked like a monster emerged from behind the cages.
He was wrapped in a dark-green military coat, and his face was entirely burned.
No hair, no eyebrows, just holes for ears, lips burned away to nothing, a face cratered and scarred.
Two round eye sockets stared at me.
13
It was the first time in years that I'd felt fear.
Fear that rattled my bones.
I couldn't even tell if the thing in front of me was human or monster.
Looking back at the caged dogs, a horrifying thought struck me.
The serial murders. The victims whose bodies had vanished without a trace.
And Ryosuke's warning that the serial killer might operate as a team.
So... the man who ran over my father might have been one of the serial killers, all along?
In that instant, my brain raced. I blurted: "Brother! The driver's hurt! He told me to come find you!"
"What?"
The burned man hesitated, then spoke.
He immediately snatched up a black cloth and covered his face. Then he moved the cages blocking the cargo exit and climbed down.
At the same time, he turned his head and hissed through his throat.
All the dogs fell silent, tucking their tails, whimpering in submission.
Then he took the driver's body from my shoulders.