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At this, Oh's eyes widen, a flicker of fear crossing his face. "What are you talking about?" he growls.

"We know you're not working alone," I continue, my heart racing. "There's a partner involved, and all signs point to Song as the mastermind."

"You're lying!" Oh shouts, his composure cracking. "Song has nothing to do with this!"

I raise my hands placatingly. "We know about her brother in the mental hospital, Oh. The expensive care he's receiving. It doesn't add up with your finances."

Oh's face contorts with a mix of rage and panic. "How do you know about her brother? What else do you think you know?"

"We know everything, Oh," I bluff, watching his reactions carefully. "The police believe Song orchestrated these crimes, manipulating you to get money for her brother's care."

"No!" Oh roars, his voice raw with emotion. "You don't understand anything! Song is innocent!"

I seize this moment, leaning in slightly. "I want to believe you, Oh. But the evidence..."

"What evidence?" Oh demands, his eyes wild. "There can't be any evidence because she's not involved!"

"Then help me understand," I urge. "If Song isn't behind this, who is? Why are you doing this?"

Oh's grip on the knife wavers. "I... I can't... Song can't be implicated in this. She can't."

"There's only one way to protect her now," I say, my voice soft but insistent. "Confess, Oh. Tell us everything. It's the only way to clear Song's name."

Oh's eyes dart between me and the hostage. "If I talk... you'll leave Song alone?"

"I promise we'll focus the investigation where it belongs," I assure him, holding my breath.

For a long moment, the room is silent save for the hostage's muffled sobs. Then, slowly, Oh lowers the knife.

"Okay," he says, his voice barely audible. "I'll tell you everything. But Song stays out of this. Promise me."

Relief washes over me, but I keep my expression neutral. "Let's go outside, Oh. We'll talk there."

As we step towards the door, Oh suddenly grabs my arm. "If you're lying to me," he hisses, "if anything happens to Song, I swear I'll—"

"I understand," I interrupt, meeting his gaze steadily. "But right now, the best thing you can do for Song is to come with me and tell the truth. All of it."

As we step out of the house into the glare of the morning sun and the flashing of countless cameras, I can't help but feel a twinge of guilt for the manipulation I've just performed. But as I see the relief on the faces of my colleagues and hear the cheers from the gathered crowd, I know it was necessary.

The hostage situation is over, broadcast live to the entire nation.

I stand on the sidewalk, surrounded by the chaos of media crews and police officers, my eyes fixed on Oh Sang-chul as he's led to a waiting police car. His shoulders are slumped, his face a mask of resignation and worry. As he reaches the vehicle, he turns back, his eyes searching until they lock onto mine.

For a moment, we stare at each other across the distance. There's a world of unspoken words in that gaze - fear, desperation, and something that might be gratitude. Then, gently but firmly, an officer guides Oh into the back seat of the car.

The door slams shut with a finality that seems to echo through the crisp morning air. I watch as the car pulls away, its lights flashing silently, carrying Oh towards an uncertain future. As it disappears around a corner, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

***

As the dust settles on the case, the truth about Oh Sang-chul emerges, more twisted and tragic than anyone could have imagined. Oh confesses to being the culprit behind the recent serial murders, working with a known criminal to fence the stolen valuables. His motives were his own dark impulses, but the thefts were driven by a misguided attempt to support Song's brother without her knowledge.

Song, it turns out, was oblivious to the source of the money, believing Oh was simply working hard at their delivery business. The realization of her unwitting role in this tragedy hits her hard, adding another layer of complexity to an already convoluted case.

In the wake of the dramatic hostage resolution, broadcast live across the nation, I find myself thrust into an unexpected spotlight. The public hails me as a hero, my face splashed across news channels and social media. The unit, impressed by my unorthodox but effective strategy, decides to fast-track my promotion from Officer to Detective.

Everything happens in a whirlwind, leaving me feeling as if I'm living in a dream. Press conferences, congratulatory handshakes, a new badge - it all blurs together in a surreal montage.

But amidst the chaos and celebration, one thing nags at me: Bundy's silence. The voice that has been my constant, if unwelcome, companion throughout this investigation has gone quiet. For days, there's nothing but silence in my head.

On the evening of my promotion ceremony, I return home, my new detective's badge heavy in my pocket. I sit on the edge of my bed, the room quiet except for the distant hum of city traffic.

"Bundy?" I call out tentatively, feeling slightly foolish. "Are you there?"

Silence.

A mix of emotions washes over me. Relief, certainly - the idea of being free from the voice of a serial killer in my head is undoubtedly positive. But there's something else too, a twinge of... loss? The realization that I might actually miss Bundy's twisted insights is unsettling.

"Bundy, you there? Say something."

Again, silence.

Just as I'm about to give up, resigning myself to the idea that Bundy is gone for good, a voice suddenly echoes in my mind. I start violently, tumbling off the bed onto the floor.

But it's not Bundy's voice. This voice is different - softer, higher pitched. Feminine.

It is a voice of a woman.

"Hello, Detective."