Between the Wet Hay - Memories of Murder adaptation

The deep, musty smell of rotten leaves and caked soil pervaded his nostrils as Kwang-Ho stood crouching low to the ground, shuddering—the cold snaking through his shoddy clothing, and slithering along his thighs.
He snuck a glance up at the detective pacing the ground, and at once was rewarded with a smart thunk on the shoulder.
“Oww!” He exclaimed, shielding his eyes automatically, bracing himself for more.
The skinnier detective with the black eyes suddenly dropped down to his stature, a menacing physiognomy twisted with passionate hatred.
“Speak! Tell us!” He ordered, with a guttural drawl.
When Kwang-Ho didn’t immediately respond, he was prodded forwards with another hollow thump, this time against his head.
Sharp, piercing skewers grazed his mind, blurring his vision. Seemingly-random images drifted to the surface of his mind, then drowned beneath the depths just as quickly.
Wanting to say something to appease the detectives but struggling with coherence, Kwang-Ho settled his muddled mind on the image of his father—his big, brawny old man who always protected him against the world. His father, whose words rang with startling clarity. “Wipe your mind clean like a chalkboard before you speak, always listen, and let your thoughts voice themselves, not your mouth.”
And so again he launched himself backwards into that night, the horror swelling anew in his pounding consciousness.
His thoughts began to divide themselves up neatly in his head, as he recalled the drizzling wet, forlorn night that everything first occurred.
“Beside the railway…in that field…” Kwang-Ho began, eyes widening in excitement. The memory began to adjust itself with slow progression, as the hazy lens of a camera is tuned to sharpness. Each flashback then collapsed into place with surprising ease.
“Her neck…” he hissed. “Hyang-Suk’s neck…” A pause.
“He was strangling her…” he spit out, finally.
At this point in the memory, fuzziness replaced the vividness with which Kwang-Ho could remember. He tried desperately to embody himself as he was that night, sandwiched between the wet hay, but it was no use.

The air was full of the smell of wet asphalt; the rain screamed in ecstasy as it clapped against the broken rows of wheat. Tucked around Hyang-Suk’s neck was a cherry-red collar that stood out like a drop of bright blood amidst the black belly-folds of night.
Her eyes, fluttering haphazardly against the beating water, shrieked in despair. Moans, which rose up her throat, died halfway before reaching her lips. Oh, how pretty she looked, even when her hair was in clomps of dirt and her cheeks were brazen with bruises.
The man’s nimble fingers moved in succession, tying knot after knot—methodically weaving around Hyang-Suk’s legs, up her arms, and across her pretty visage. Kwang-Ho was surprised when it was all over in a matter of seconds, the girl motionless, still glowing with the aura of recent human life. Before long, the man was running off into the darkness, letting the thick fog swallow his fading figure into oblivion.