Tae-Hee held his breath.
He had just entered without knocking—or more accurately, he had been pushed—and he was inwardly cursing Jacob with a fervor he usually reserved for pharmacology multiple-choice exams. Why had he done that?
Why?
He turned around slowly.
Dr. Douglas was sizing him up from across his desk, looking like someone who had just found a stain on his favorite tie. This man in his fifties, with graying temples and a piercing gaze, was known throughout the hospital for his volcanic temperament—the kind of volcano that didn't really need a reason to erupt.
— Good morning, Doctor. I am Jong Tae-Hee, the transfer intern of the week. I've just come from Dr. Shin's department, in intensive care.
Dr. Douglas reached for a cabinet handle without rushing, looked him up and down with a sigh that spoke volumes about his current opinion of him, and then dropped:
— You're new. And this is the time you decide to introduce yourself. If you keep this up, you'll end up as a campsite doctor.
Tae-Hee bowed—a Korean reflex anchored in his bones—and offered his apologies without attempting to justify himself. He had learned very early in life that giving explanations to this type of character was like throwing oil on a fire that was already very satisfied with itself.
Douglas placed an alarmingly high stack of documents on the desk.
— Your work for the day. Follow me.
He walked past him without waiting, and Tae-Hee hurried to gather the pile—logs, prescriptions, reports, forms, and probably Volume III of an encyclopedia slipped in there by accident—before trotting in his wake like a heavily loaded duck.
Hours later, Tae-Hee slumped onto a bench in the breakroom with the elegance of a man who had just survived a war he alone hadn't known had been declared.
They had done a full round of the rooms. On every floor, Dr. Douglas had added new tasks to his already overloaded mental list and scolded him every time he dared to ask a question—as if medical curiosity were a personal form of insult.
Now, he had to write up reports for several patients, visit them one by one to update his data, and somehow find the time to do it all correctly within a day that was shrinking before his eyes. What bothered him deep down was that he wasn't the only intern in the department. So why him?
Maybe it was punishment for being late.
He chose to believe that. It was more reassuring than the truth.
Besides—he suddenly realized he hadn't seen Dave all day. Where had that guy gone?
The door creaked. Tae-Hee raised his head with a sharpness that betrayed a hope he wouldn't have been able to name clearly.
It wasn't Dave.
It was a woman with blonde hair gathered in a bun, who entered the room with the quiet confidence of someone who has never had to justify their presence anywhere. Her amber eyes slid over him with the precision of a scanner.
— You're the transfer?
— Yes... Tae-Hee murmured.
She didn't answer and headed toward a locker to pull out a thermos. Then, as if moved by an almost clinical curiosity, she approached him and glanced at his documents.
One eyebrow went up. Then the other.
Her years by Dr. Douglas's side immediately whispered the diagnosis: hazing. Advanced stage. Guarded prognosis.
She sighed. It had been a long time since Douglas had pulled this kind of stunt. What could this boy have possibly done to deserve this?
—Do you need help?
Tae-Hee didn't hide his surprise—and smiled with a disarming sincerity. He hadn't expected a perfect stranger to stop, notice, and ask.
— No, I'll be fine. Thank you.
She nodded, drank a cup from her thermos, put it away, and headed for the exit. Ihope he keeps that smile in a few weeks, she thought, without really believing it.The door closed.
Tae-Hee started. He had forgotten to ask her name.
Two weeks later.
Tae-Hee stood before the staff coffee machine, watching it grind its beans with the same intensity a man might watch the sky before a battle. It was his umpteenth coffee of the week—he had stopped counting around the eighth day, when the numbers had started to scare him.
The situation had evolved. Not in a good way.
At first, he managed to finish his work on time. Then Dr. Douglas had given him more. Then his seniors in the department had joined in, with smiles so disarming he hadn't known how to say no: "We're counting on you, Tei! "—said with an affectionate pat on the shoulder, as if the nickname made the exploitation more acceptable.
Tae-Hee, unable to refuse without a valid reason, had first shortened his breaks. It wasn't enough. He cut them out entirely. That wasn't enough either. He had begun to cut into his sleep—which led to the memorable episode where he mixed up the pathologies of three patients, earning himself thirty minutes of reprimands from Dr. Douglas, a monologue Tae-Hee endured standing up, eyes open, technically present.
To avoid being late in the morning, he had simply decided not to go home anymore. The hospital had sofas. Uncomfortable, certainly, but there.
And as if the universe had decided that his endurance hadn't been sufficiently tested, Derek—one of his seniors—had come to beg him to cover a few shifts so he could go babysit his nephews. Tae-Hee had said yes, obviously, because nephews, and because he was fundamentally incapable of looking someone in the eye who was suffering and saying: "figure it out yourself."
Perhaps that was his real medical problem.
Added to this was the mystery of Dave, still nowhere to be found, whose absence was starting to look like an organized disappearance.
It was now seven in the morning. In two hours, he would have to present his weekly report to Dr. Douglas. He had the data. He had the results. He was just missing a coffee and, incidentally, eight hours of sleep.
The machine made a dull thud. It stopped dead.
Tae-Hee stared at it. He gave it a cautious tap on the side. The machine didn't budge—impassive, sovereign, probably fully aware of what it was doing.
He crouched down slowly and contemplated the gray floor tiles. They offered him no answers.
Then something, somewhere deep inside him—beneath the layers of fatigue, swallowed pride, and foul coffee—stiffened.
No.
He wasn't going to stop here. He was going to finish everything. He was going to present that report, flawless, and Dr. Douglas would have nothing to criticize, and it would be—he wasn't going to—
— Tae-Hee!
He knew that voice. All too well.
Kiara burst into the hallway like a comet with magenta streaks, her multicolored hair clips clinking with every step. She barely stood five feet three, which had never stopped her from taking up more space than someone twice her size. She hugged him before he even had time to fully straighten up, then stepped back to examine his face.
— You look like someone who's been exhumed. And what is that smell?
Tae-Hee chuckled, slightly embarrassed.
— Why... are you here? he said, deftly.
—Oh! You haven't heard? A new doctor is being transferred to the hospital. From what people are saying, he's a very famous expert in the field. The director herself is coming to welcome him today!
It was only then that Tae-Hee noticed the workers crossing the hallway with armfuls of flowers, banners, and decorations. The hospital—usually as warm as a pharmaceutical leaflet—had donned its festive attire for the occasion.
He blinked slowly.
He was so lost in his own survival calculations that he hadn't even seen the world changing around him.
He scratched his head.
— Unfortunately, I won't be able to make it. You'll have to tell me about it.
Kiara nodded. He turned his back to her and walked away down the corridor, his pile of documents under his arm, his ghost coffee left behind in a striking machine.
She watched him go. In her golden eyes, something pinched—a quiet worry, the kind you don't put into words so as not to give it too much weight.
— I hope he's okay, she whispered.
The hallway swallowed him up.