I make my way to the Yongin Local Police Station, my mind still reeling from the revelation at the hospital.
As I enter the Yongin Local Police Station, the familiar scent of coffee and paper fills my nostrils. I approach the front desk, where a middle-aged officer is typing away at his computer.
"Officer Park, Seoul tropolitan Investigation Unit," I say, flashing my badge. "I need so assistance with a case I'm working on."
The desk officer barely glances up, his expression dismissive. "Officer, huh? Look, we're pretty busy here. Maybe you should talk to your superiors about—"
I cut him off, my patience wearing thin. "I said, Seoul tropolitan Investigation Unit. Perhaps you didn't hear correctly."
The officer looks up now, his eyes narrowing. "Seoul tropolitan... wait, that can't be right. They don't send officers on—" He pauses, reaching for my credentials. "Let see that badge again."
I hand it over, watching as he scrutinizes it closely. Suddenly, his eyes widen, and his entire deanor changes. He jumps to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process.
"I'm so sorry, sir! I didn't realize... Please, forgive my mistake," he stamrs, his face flushing red. "How can we assist the Seoul tropolitan Investigation Unit?"
The transformation is almost comical, and I feel a mix of amusent and discomfort at the sudden deference. It's a stark reminder of the power my unit holds, even if I'm just an officer.
"I need information on a patient at Yongin ntal Hospital," I explain, keeping my voice level despite the officer's flustered state.
"Of course, of course," he nods enthusiastically. "Let get the chief detective for you right away. Please, have a seat in our conference room. Can I get you so coffee?"
As I'm ushered into a private room, treated like royalty simply because of my unit affiliation, I can't help but reflect on the situation. The power dynamics at play here are clear, and it's both enlightening and sowhat troubling to experience them firsthand.
I settle into a plush chair, waiting for the chief detective, and prepare myself for the information that might change the course of this investigation. Despite the preferential treatnt, I remind myself to stay focused on the task at hand. After all, it's not about rank or prestige – it's about uncovering the truth, no matter where it might lead.
I explain the situation, careful to keep the details vague. The officer nods attentively, then quickly ushers to a private room where a senior detective is waiting.
As we discuss the case and the information I need, I can't help but notice the deferential treatnt I'm receiving. It's a stark reminder of the power and influence my unit wields. A twinge of discomfort runs through as I realize how much of this is due to the connections and future prospects of my colleagues, rather than the rits of our work.
The senior detective makes a call, speaking in hushed tones to soone he refers to as his "contact" at the hospital. I wait, tension building in my chest.
Finally, he turns to , his expression serious. "Officer Park, we've got so information for you. It seems the patient Song Mi-kyung is visiting is her younger brother."
I feel a jolt of surprise. "Her brother? There's no record of him in any of the official docunts we've found."
The detective nods grimly. "It appears he's been institutionalized for a long ti. The records might have been sealed or simply lost in the system."
He hands a file with the brother's basic information. As I scan the docunts, my mind is already racing ahead, planning my next steps.
"Thank you for your help," I say, standing up. "This is invaluable information."
The detective smiles, shaking my hand. "Anything for the Seoul tropolitan Unit. Give our regards to Inspector Han."
As I drive back to Seoul, the weight of this new information settles over . Song has a brother - a brother who's been hidden away in a ntal hospital for years. What does this an for our case? How does Oh fit into all of this?
Back at the unit's headquarters, I settle into my desk, the weight of new information pressing on my mind. I boot up my computer and begin the process of digging into Song's brother's past.
The first records I find confirm what the Yongin police told . Song Mi-kyung does indeed have a younger brother, Song Ji-hoon, born in 1985. As I scroll through the docunts, a tragic story unfolds.
In 2001, when Ji-hoon was just 16, he was involved in a horrific car accident. The details are sparse, but the aftermath is clear: severe traumatic brain injury, resulting in long-term cognitive and behavioral issues. He's been institutionalized ever since.
I lean back in my chair, absorbing this information. Sixteen years old. Just a kid, really. And in an instant, his life changed forever.
Digging deeper, I find records of governnt assistance. Ji-hoon is under state care, receiving a monthly subsidy to cover his dical expenses. But as I cross-reference this with what I know about Yongin ntal Hospital, sothing doesn't add up.
Yongin ntal Hospital is one of the most prestigious – and expensive – facilities in South Korea. Its gleaming halls and state-of-the-art treatnts co with a hefty price tag, one that far exceeds the governnt subsidy Ji-hoon receives.
I pull up the hospital's fee structure, comparing it to Ji-hoon's benefits. The disparity is stark. The governnt assistance wouldn't cover even half of the monthly costs at Yongin.
So how is Ji-hoon affording this care? The obvious answer sends a chill down my spine: Song Mi-kyung must be supporting him financially.
But how? From what I've seen of their lifestyle, Oh and Song aren't wealthy. They live modestly, run a small delivery business. Where is this extra money coming from?
And then Bundy's voice whispers in the back of my mind, reminding of his theory about Oh's motivations. Is this why Oh needed big money? To keep Song's brother in this expensive facility? To make Song happy?
I'm lost in thought, piecing together the complex puzzle of Oh, Song, and her brother, when a commotion erupts in the office. Voices rise in excitent and urgency, pulling from my reverie.
"Hey, everyone! Co quick! There's a hostage situation being broadcast live!"
I look up, annoyed at the interruption, but the urgency in my colleague's voice draws towards the television mounted on the wall. A crowd has already gathered, their eyes glued to the screen.
The news ticker at the bottom of the screen scrolls with updates: "Breaking News: Ard Intruder Takes Caretaker Hostage in Elderly Man's Ho."
A reporter's voice narrates the scene: "The suspect, a masked man, apparently broke into the ho intending to burglarize it, unaware that the 80-year-old hoowner, who suffers from dentia, and his caretaker were present. The situation escalated, and now the caretaker, a middle-aged woman, is being held hostage. The suspect is demanding safe passage from the police."
My colleagues chatter excitedly, their voices a mix of professional interest and morbid fascination.
"Can you believe they're broadcasting this live?"
"Poor woman, she must be terrified."
At first, I hang back, my mind still preoccupied with Oh and Song's case. But sothing nags at , drawing my attention to the screen. I step closer, squinting at the grainy live feed from inside the house.
And then I see him.
My blood runs cold as I recognize the build, the posture, the way he moves. Even with the mask, I know it's him.
Oh Sang-chul.
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