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On September 3, 2002, at 19:48, I stood on the rooftop, recreating the crime scene in the pouring rain. The laser rangefinder indicated that the straight-line distance from the Water Tank to the dance studio was exactly 55 meters.
Suddenly, the thermal imaging device detected an unusual heat source—on the third rung of the rusty maintenance ladder, a piece of metal continued to emit heat radiation from the summer of 1986. When the grinding wheel cut through the metal plate, a micro-sized Crimson was lodged within a military-grade anti-magnetic layer. The recording label read "1988 Olympic Torch Collection Rehearsal," but what played back was a distress call recording from Li Manzhu in 1986. The background sound clearly featured an electronic clock chiming, yet it was the subway announcement sound that had only been activated in 2001.
At the moment of collision with Dual Time-Space Physical Evidence, I placed the Deep Blue Uniform worn by the corpse in 2002 into a vacuum chamber, filled it with argon gas, and activated the plasma emission spectrometer. The fabric suddenly oozed a black viscous liquid, etching out the architectural blueprints of the Church Orphanage from 1986 on the protective glass. At the location of the boiler room on the blueprints, Calcium Fluoride Crystals identical to those found inside the Iron Box were detected—this was precisely where the incinerator for burning bodies had been during that year's fire.
As the rain intensified, two generations of detectives' voices overlapped through time and space: "The load coefficient of the steel frame on the rooftop has issues!" The building engineer from 2002 pointed at the stress analysis diagram. "These bolts didn't even exist before 1988..."
"The shadow in that uniform has no feet!" Li Manzhu from 1986 convulsed on his hospital bed. "It moves as if walking on stilts that are 55 centimeters high..."
When I placed two fragments of Platinum Hairpins from different eras into an Ultrasonic Cleaner, the liquid suddenly boiled and vaporized, condensing a secret code of the church on the cabin walls. The deciphered text froze everyone's blood—it was actually a Military Human Experiment Report number archived only in 2015.
At 23:07, an ultimate reversal occurred. The emergency lights suddenly exploded, and in darkness, I felt the dried left hand of a corpse. As the Ultraviolet Lamp swept over my fingers, Countdown written in Church Ink began to flicker: 55 hours.
At that moment, my phone vibrated with new test results from the Forensic Department regarding the inner layer of the Iron Box—it contained a copy of East Asia Daily published on September 5, 2002. Amidst the sound of rain, I faintly heard melodies from Seoul Cathedral Organ. I looked towards the Olympic Venue direction; at that moment, where Li Eun-hee had seen droplets of blood projected, red warning lights for demolition work were now illuminated.
Those flashing points formed an equilateral triangle through the water curtain, with each vertex corresponding to a fourth body yet to be found.
On September 5, 2002, at 03:17, within the musty smell of wood partitions in the Confessional Room mingled with bloodstains, I donned Biological Protective Gloves and used tweezers to extract a piece of Crimson caught in the gap of the confession window. The surface oxidation glimmered indigo under ultraviolet light due to its unique Church Ink properties; however, label B bore an inscription written with Correction Fluid that had been discontinued in 2001: June 14, 1988.
"Voiceprint Separation System, activated." The technical feedback from the Forensic Department came through the headset. I watched the numbers on the recorder's counter suddenly reverse as I inserted Crimson into the magnetically shielded player.
As the Seoul Cathedral Organ version of Requiem began to play, the temperature gauge showed a sudden drop of 5°C in the Confessional Room.
"Background sound detected at 17.5Hz infrasound, amplitude exceeds the safety threshold by 37 times!" The technician's warning coincided with a crackling noise from the electrical equipment.
As I ripped off the headphones, Crimson had automatically flipped to play an entirely different content—a man's hoarse confession intertwined eerily with the melody of the Olympic theme song Hand in Hand.
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