Seoul Object Story

Of course it was in chaos—it would be strange if it weren’t. Who wouldn’t panic after witnessing a scene where blood flowed like a river, and human skins floated gently on its surface?

There was something undeniably eerie about the Gray Reaper standing at the center of the pool of blood, surrounded by submerged clothes and personal belongings. It was almost too perfect for a horror movie poster—problem was, it was all too real.

Journalists swarmed the area like flies, cameras in hand, desperate to capture one more photo. Despite the soldiers’ best efforts to push them back, they were overwhelmed. Honestly, even if we tried harder to block them, there was no stopping the story from hitting the news. Another grisly tale involving the Gray Reaper would inevitably spread across headlines: “People Vanish Overnight… Culprit: The Gray Reaper?!”

With atmospheric photos flooding in, the grim news would shock the entire nation. Unfortunately, letting the Gray Reaper’s infamy grow worked in our favor—but my failure to prevent this situation despite being in charge left a bitter taste.

Had we kept the gates closed and ignored the chaos, we might’ve gotten away with it. But startled soldiers had already opened the gates, allowing journalists to snap their damning photos. To top it off, one soldier abandoned his post on the day of the operation and recklessly unlocked the gate himself.

My temples throbbed under the stress. We should’ve been cleaning up this mess and starting our work, but time wasn’t on our side. With butterflies spreading outward from Songpa and the missile countdown ticking down, every second counted. We had roughly 24 hours left.

Before that window closed, we needed to secure and destroy the target Object. Assigning soldiers to handle the press, we sent our specialized team into the eerily silent camp.

***

Inside the camp awaited a colossal pool of blood. At first glance, it seemed half the camp residents had perished here. The sheer volume of blood, scattered possessions, and tattered clothing confirmed as much.

And there, atop the crimson lake, the Gray Reaper leapt about gleefully. To me, through my monocle, it looked like the Reaper was stomping on butterflies to chase them away. But to others, it probably appeared as a mad object cavorting joyfully upon the blood.

Indeed, everyone except the blind old man seemed uneasy, their discomfort palpable. To refocus them, I clapped loudly, drawing attention before issuing orders:

“Alright, everyone, please disperse and search for the Object as planned. Once found, fire a signal flare. We’ll be preparing at the camp center.”

True professionals, they dispersed swiftly, each tackling their assigned district.

“Hey, look! There’s a wall pierced in the shape of a Reaper!”

Turning toward the junior detective’s shout, I spotted curious imprints among the wreckage: Reaper-shaped holes, hand-shaped holes, foot-shaped holes—a bizarre collection.

‘What exactly was the Reaper doing here?’ This added to the mystery.

***

The detective had unleashed a horde of people throughout the camp.

To eliminate the butterflies, certain conditions needed fulfillment:

[Destroy the Black Mirror.]

That so-called “Black Mirror” must be producing these butterflies. After all, similar Objects often spawned creatures this way. If the detective believed a Black Mirror existed here, he likely had good reason—even if he didn’t know whether it was truly a mirror.

Without insight into destruction requirements like mine, figuring out the Object was a Black Mirror would’ve been tough. Still, I watched him curiously, waiting for my chance to step in.

***

Our search ended in failure. There was no easily discoverable Object within the camp.

The reconnaissance team had done their job; I dismissed them before the old man began his work. His ritual wasn’t meant for public viewing.

Handing Watson, held in my right hand, to the waiting elder, I asked politely, “Grandpa, can you take care of this?”

“Sure.”

With a curt reply, the old man pulled nails from his blood-red book and hammered them into the ground around him. Disturbingly, each nail caused blood to trickle from the earth as though it were alive. After encircling himself with nails, he closed the book, knelt, and screamed.

“Aaaaaaaaah!”

His bloodshot eyes overflowed with tears, creating a waterfall of crimson. Something felt wrong—this elaborate ceremony hadn’t happened during previous encounters. Had something changed?

“Senior… Is this normal? Should it be like this?”

At the junior’s question, I noticed the Book of Prophecy beneath the old man beginning to char like coal. What was going on?

***

I was nearing death.

Every breath reminded me how monstrous I was becoming, driven by relentless urges spurred by the Book of Prophecy. Searching for a place to die, I received a call from the young man who once saved my daughter.

In that moment, I knew—I was meant to die here.

But entering the camp gave me an ominous feeling. A presence far stronger than the Book of Prophecy warned me: [Leave now.]

Ignoring it, I clenched my teeth, determined to repay my debt before dying.

When my turn came, I gambled everything on one final question: ‘Where is the Object causing the butterflies?’

Though unable to speak clearly due to the strain of overusing the Book of Prophecy, my wish was granted. If the price was my life, then so be it—I’d sacrifice myself here.

Through sightless eyes, I saw a crimson shape revealed by the Book: a mirror.

The detective sought a mirror.

Its location?!

***

“What…”

I couldn’t believe what happened next. The Book of Prophecy turned to ash, and the nails embedded in the ground were suddenly yanked free, flying into the air.

The old man, who seemed to have uncovered some truth, opened his mouth to speak but instead twisted grotesquely, choking out his last breath.

What was this? Could the source of the butterflies possess such power?

“Se…Senior…”

The junior detective trembled beside me, pale-faced at this bizarre phenomenon.

Rushing to the elder, it was clear he was gone. Though I sensed his life fading earlier, his sudden demise shocked me. This wasn’t a side effect of the Book—it was murder.

Who killed him? Was it the butterfly-producing Object?

If so, halting the missile strike became even more critical. Such transcendent power wouldn’t succumb to mere missiles.

Yet we were out of options. Given more time, perhaps, but with only 24 hours remaining, nothing could be done.

Glancing at Watson in my right hand, inspiration struck. Watson could provide answers!

Shaking off unsettling premonitions, I raised the lantern high and shouted:

“Watson, tell me the source Object behind these butterflies!”

“Watson, tell me the source Object behind these butterflies!”

“Watson, tell me the source Object behind these butterflies!”

From the lantern came giggles.

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

The lantern violently shook, projecting a shadow toward the sky.

“Cheating, Holmes. You’re not supposed to use an Object to peek at the answer sheet.”

“You’re not Holmes if you rely on shortcuts.”

“You’re not Holmes if you ask Watson for help.”

“Fake Holmes must die! Die! Die!”

“But since Watson is nice, you’ll get one chance.”

The shadow of Watson loomed ominously, reeking of blood.