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"Officer Park, Seoul Metropolitan Investigation Unit," I say, flashing my badge. "I need some 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 Metropolitan Investigation Unit. Perhaps you didn't hear me correctly."

The officer looks up now, his eyes narrowing. "Seoul Metropolitan... wait, that can't be right. They don't send officers on—" He pauses, reaching for my credentials. "Let me see that badge again."

I hand it over, watching as he scrutinizes it closely. Suddenly, his eyes widen, and his entire demeanor 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 stammers, his face flushing red. "How can we assist the Seoul Metropolitan Investigation Unit?"

The transformation is almost comical, and I feel a mix of amusement 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 Mental Hospital," I explain, keeping my voice level despite the officer's flustered state.

"Of course, of course," he nods enthusiastically. "Let me get the chief detective for you right away. Please, have a seat in our conference room. Can I get you some 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 somewhat 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 treatment, 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 me 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 treatment I'm receiving. It's a stark reminder of the power and influence my unit wields. A twinge of discomfort runs through me as I realize how much of this is due to the connections and future prospects of my colleagues, rather than the merits of our work.

The senior detective makes a call, speaking in hushed tones to someone he refers to as his "contact" at the hospital. I wait, tension building in my chest.

Finally, he turns to me, his expression serious. "Officer Park, we've got some 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 documents we've found."

The detective nods grimly. "It appears he's been institutionalized for a long time. The records might have been sealed or simply lost in the system."

He hands me a file with the brother's basic information. As I scan the documents, 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 Metropolitan Unit. Give our regards to Inspector Han."

As I drive back to Seoul, the weight of this new information settles over me. Song has a brother - a brother who's been hidden away in a mental hospital for years. What does this mean 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 me. Song Mi-kyung does indeed have a younger brother, Song Ji-hoon, born in 1985. As I scroll through the documents, 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 government assistance. Ji-hoon is under state care, receiving a monthly subsidy to cover his medical expenses. But as I cross-reference this with what I know about Yongin Mental Hospital, something doesn't add up.

Yongin Mental Hospital is one of the most prestigious – and expensive – facilities in South Korea. Its gleaming halls and state-of-the-art treatments come with a hefty price tag, one that far exceeds the government subsidy Ji-hoon receives.

I pull up the hospital's fee structure, comparing it to Ji-hoon's benefits. The disparity is stark. The government 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 me 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 excitement and urgency, pulling me from my reverie.

"Hey, everyone! Come 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 me 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: Armed Intruder Takes Caretaker Hostage in Elderly Man's Home."

A reporter's voice narrates the scene: "The suspect, a masked man, apparently broke into the home intending to burglarize it, unaware that the 80-year-old homeowner, who suffers from dementia, 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 something nags at me, 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.