Seo Moon-jo was chillingly proud of being a serial killer. He remembered every single one of his victims, creating bracelets or necklaces with their teeth. Taking a life, at least for him, was an art that required mastery and devotion, precision and perfection.

Unfortunately for him, society did not share his view, and eventually, he was caught.

His frighteningly composed demeanor did not abandon him, even during the trial. He calmly and proudly admitted that the charges against him were true and seemed to take pleasure in nauseating everyone by recounting the details of every single murder.

He was sentenced to be confined in a psychiatric hospital, and he didn't give anyone the satisfaction of showing how much the situation bothered him. On the contrary, he smiled. In a way, it could be a positive thing. He would be surrounded by people of his own kind. Psychopaths, sociopaths, the mentally ill, misanthropes, and perhaps a few schizophrenics.

He soon realized, however, that a psychiatric hospital also meant activities with psychologists and therapists, sometimes private or group sessions with other patients, and endless prescriptions of psychotropic drugs that were supposed to help him 'recover.' You taught him how to pretend to take the pills. It was really easy; all he had to do was hide them under his tongue.

That day, like every Friday since he had entered that dreadful place, he was sitting on a chair with one elbow resting on the backrest, his dark hair ruffled. He hated all the sessions, especially the group ones. Six or even more patients sitting in a circle listening to the nonsense that shrink was talking about.

The worst part was that he couldn't even skip it or stay silent, because somehow, you had to say something to every single one of those doctors. For him, it was like a performance in a theatre. When he was called upon to talk about the progress of his psyche, he made up a nice little speech about how much better he felt and how grateful he was to all the hospital staff. Lies, you knew it, and he knew it.

When the weekly torture was over, everyone dispersed in the room, but the two of you remained seated in your spots. "He didn't buy it," you said, sitting in the chair to his right, almost mocking him.

He slowly turned his gaze towards you, his eyes seemingly penetrating your soul. "Mh, yes, he did, babe," he simply replied calmly, his tone veiled by that natural disquiet he could hardly ever conceal. "Certainly, I was more convincing than you. Although I must admit, your little speech was truly touching. Where did you learn to fake cry? The same place you learned to lie badly?"