Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As doctors, it is normal to think that our hands and brains are what's important for us, but the truth is; our legs are.

Yeah, you heard that right. Our legs are the key to operating around the hospital 24/7. Why?  Well, it's because we have to run. Running as fast as we can, as if we were running out of time, as if a patient was dying right in front of us. Our speed is what will determine if we can save the patient or not, and prevent death from happening. It's normal to see doctors, nurses, surgeons, attendings, interns, just sprinting through the hospital, chasing the clock, accepting calls of duty; this is their life. They have devoted themselves to saving people's lives. 

"Move!"

Hearing the young attending's command, everyone in the corridors immediately moved aside to let him run past them. Some of the doctors and staff noticed who he was and gave out a small grin because they knew very well who just passed them, a few nurses starts to whisper his name and glance at him, and a new group of interns who just finished doing their rounds starts to question about who was that young doctor that ran passed them.

"That's one good runner." one of the interns said, amazed, and the others nodded in agreement.

They're senior resident who were with them, made a small chuckle." And it'll be great if you learnt how to sprint that fast from him."

"Sunbae, do you know him?" asks one of the interns.

"You mean Yang Jaewon?" The senior turns his head to them. "Well, of course I know him. The whole hospital knows him at this point, " he adds.

"Dr. Yang was the fellow who transferred from Colorectal Surgery to Trauma about a year ago, right?" explained another intern, who seemed unfazed by Jaewon's presence.

"Woah~ It looks like you've been lurking around the hospital and gathering precious news, huh~" they're senior teased and slowly nodded, "Yes, that's true. Dr. Yang is now an attending and working at the Trauma Center. He's Professor Baek's precious protege." a small smirk was shown, but the interns couldn't fully understand what that look meant—after all, they are interns who just started working here.

---

"I'm here! What's the situation?" Jaewon called out as he burst through the doors.

"We have a Code Yellow—Mass Casualties—." Jang-Mi walks to him with the notes she gathered from the recent emergency call, "The Air Rescue Unit, Team Leader Ahn, informed me that there was a massive explosion at a research lab facility. Many injured patients, massive burn injuries, and possible radioactive exposure."

Jaewon starts to analyze the notes she wrote as Nurse Agnes gave him a pair of latex gloves. He gave the notes back to Jang Mi and puts on the gloves, "Have you heard from Professor Baek?" he asked and turned to Jang-Mi.

"Wait- I thought you knew?" She was confused to hear how Jaewon was unaware of Kang-hyuk's whereabouts.

Jaewon is now confused, "What are you talking about?"

"Professor Baek went to the site right after I received the call."

Now this explains it all, no wonder he hasn't seen his mentor present at the trauma unit till now. Kang-hyuk was always punctual towards timing; he was never late, and to see him not here, he had guessed that Kang-hyuk may have gone to the site to start triage and deal with the patients beforehand. 

"Alright, keep him updated about the situation here, and inform me when he's already back from the site."

Jang-Mi nods to his command and starts to prepare herself for the first ambulance to come in. Suddenly, a loud running thud was heard not far from the trauma unit door, it burst open with a loud bang. Everyone turned their heads to the person who just came in, including Jaewon. He could see how that person was trying to catch his breath, he sighed slowly.

"You're late." Jaewon stated as he glanced at his watch, "7 minutes late, Dong-Ju."

Seo Dong-Ju, the new fellow who just joined the Trauma team recently, was a former ROK Armed Forces Personnel. The two have met each other before, and now, he's Jaewon's underling, Kang-hyuk's No.2—that is the nickname that he gave to Dong-Ju since the first time they met a year ago.

Dong-Ju immediately stands beside Jaewon, "I'm sorry, Sunbae. It won't happen again in the future."

Jaeonwon glances at him, "It's fine. You were lucky enough that it was me who was waiting and not Professor Baek. If it were him, you'd only have a slight chance of surviving the rest of the day." his tone was soft and nurturing. Dong-Ju felt relieved and nodded, "You're not entirely wrong."

Jaewon grinned, "Thank me later."

"Everyone! Get ready! The first ambulance is coming in!" shouts one of the nurses who was on standby.

Without wasting another second, Jaewon, Dong-Ju, and Jang-Mi sprints to the ambulance entrance. Jaewon could see the ambulance coming in. Once it was parked, the doors opened, his body started to move instinctively, approached the paramedics, "Dong-Ju, you handle the second ambulance. Jang-Mi, you're with me." he commanded. Dong-Ju quickly approached the incoming ambulance and started to check the patient's condition as he listened to the paramedic's report.

Back at Jaewon's side, "Male, mid-thirties. Found at the scene of the research lab facility explosion—he was the closest to the blast. Approximately 40% total body surface area burns—face, chest, and both arms. Partial to full thickness." 

After hearing the report, Jaewon, Jang-Mi, and the other nurses starts to push the gurney inside the trauma center, he starts to check for the patient's pupil dilation and airway, "Airway compromised?"

"Singed nasal hairs, hoarse voice, soot in the oropharynx—high risk of inhalation injury. We intubated on-site." continues the paramedics.

"Vitals?"

"BP’s been crashing—last read was 82 over 50, heart rate 132. He was hypotensive on arrival, and we’ve pushed two liters of fluids already. Suspect internal bleeding—his abdomen is distended and firm, especially in the RUQ. No external bleeding." Jaewon started to check the patient's abdomen, and the paramedics were right, it seemed like internal bleeding. 

"Mechanism of injury?" 

"Debris impact—possibly impaled or blunt force trauma to the torso. No time to scan at the scene, but signs point to liver or spleen involvement." the paramedics gave his last report.

Jaewon nods, "Got it. Let’s get him to trauma bay one. Page the burn team, surgical, and respiratory. This one’s going to the OR fast."

"Yes, Doctor." Jang-Mi instinctively pushes the gurney out of his sight and starts to go through his orders. Another patient comes in, he rushes to the gurney and calls Nurse Agnes to assist. He begins to inspect the patient, "What's the situation?"

"Female, early 30s. Found unconscious at the scene of a research lab explosion—the facility was part of a high-risk experimental program. No known specifics yet, but hazmat's locking the site down."

"What are we dealing with?" asked Jaewon.

"Severe multisystem trauma. Possible skull fracture—blunt force to the back of the head, bleeding from the left ear, GCS 6 on site. Unequal pupils, brief seizure in transit."

Nurse Agnes's expression changes. Those reports are all severe. "Vitals?" she asks.

"BP is tanking—72 over 40, heart rate 152, respirations irregular. We intubated en route. Pelvic instability with deformity, possible bilateral femur fractures. Swelling and bruising across the abdomen—we suspect internal bleeding, maybe splenic or hepatic rupture."

Instinctively, Jaewon starts to put small pressure on the patient's abdomen to see how bad of a rupture he's dealing with, and from the feeling of his fingertips, it's bad. He turns to the paramedic and continues to ask, "Radiation?"

"Unknown exposure. Our Geiger counters spiked briefly when we got close—source could be unstable isotopes or something experimental. We stripped his outer clothing, bagged it, scrubbed with decon spray, but we couldn’t waste time with full isolation. Assume contamination until proven otherwise." That's the only answer that they could give for Jaewon. Another paramedic adds, "Left arm’s got open fractures, possible compartment syndrome developing in the thigh. Also showing patchy skin burns and blistering—could be chemical or radiation burns."

"Alright, move! Trauma 1 now. Full-body CT, stat labs, blood ready. Call ortho, neuro, and radiology—and get the radiation safety officer down here now. Prep OR 2! This is more than trauma—he might be toxic." he barks, and Nurse Agnes instantly follows his commands. "And page Dr. Park from Anasthesiologist for me! Stat!" Jaewon adds before Nurse Agnes was completely out of his sight.

The Trauma Center is extremely swamped today, and it seems it won't be ending anytime soon. Jaewon's already packed with 2 surgeries now, thank god he has Dong-Ju to rely on, and the whole Trauma Team. But he's worried about one person who's on the explosion site as we speak, Professor Baek. He wonders if he's okay. Is he overwhelmed out there? He could be struggling. But he can't just leave and go after him to the site, he knows he has to stay, he knows it's Kang-hyuk's order without having to tell him face to face, he knows how much Kang-hyuk trusts him, and he can't let him down. Not today. 

---

Research Lab Facility Site

"Ahn! Get him to the hospital stat!"

"Yes, Professor Baek."

The site was in shambles, it was hectic, and swamped. Kang-hyuk wiped away his sweat and continued to collect his thoughts, he could see paramedics running around taking care of patients, a whole SWAT team had just finished inspecting the research lab facility, and news anchors who were now on the scoop. Yeah, this is a lot, but he could surpass it all; for him, it was probably nothing, the years he spent with Black Wings in Syria and Sudan were practically much worse.

To be honest, Kang-hyuk was actually intrigued to know what caused the building to explode. I mean, yes, it could be due to the lab experiments and radiation, with all those scientific gizmos, of course, an explosion would occur at any second. But he senses something off from all of this. He can't quite wrap his head around; there's this gut feeling in him, like his whole stomach and organs were all twisted, signaling him that there's something iffy about this site, about everything.

Kang-hyuk was about to go for another round of triage when he heard Team Leader Ahn calling for him, "Professor Baek!"

He turns his head to him, and he could see Ahn's expression, signaling that he should go back to the hospital now, but of course, Kang-hyuk refuses, "I know what you're gonna say, Ahn, but I'm not going back to the hospital. Not yet."

"But this time you must, Professor." Ahn's words were firm and demanding. He walked closer, "There's a rumor that one of the labs in this facility was for research on nuclear mass. You should head back, it's not safe here."

Kang-hyuk frowned at his words, "What do you mean by a nuclear mass?" Without wasting a second, he immediately searches for the SWAT commander to have a word with him. Ahn followed him to one of the tents where the whole SWAT team and police were gathering. As he went inside, everyone in the tent looked at them. Kang-hyuk briefly introduced himself and Ahn. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I was told that this lab facility seemed to be a research facility for nuclear mass as well." Kang-hyuk stated, his tone was calm, yet deep down, he was worried to know the truth, but he must maintain his cool; he can't let himself get shaken by this situation. 

One of the SWAT member took a step forward, from the looks, he's probably the commander in charge of this case, "Professor Baek, you're the head of Trauma Unit at Hankuk National University Hospital, right?" he asks, Kang-hyuk nodded in response, "Well, for now, the site is mostly cleared. Everyone from the building are now safe, but we’ve got major structural instability, whatever blew it, wasn’t small." the SWAT commander starts to inform him the details.

"I can't fully confirm to you that this facility was also for research on nuclear-"

"Commander! You’re gonna want to see this." Suddenly, a tech walks up carrying a charred security hard drive and gives it to the commander, "We pulled partial logs from the sublevel server. This wasn’t just a research facility—this was a classified nuclear prototype lab."

Everyone in the room seemed fazed, the atmosphere turned cold and tense. 

"Nuclear? You telling me this was a bomb lab?" asks the commander.

Before the tech could answer, a federal agent walks in, pale, holding a dossier, "Worse. Experimental nuclear compression research—Project Ithaca. Classified. They were working on micro-fission reactions using small-scale enriched mass. The kind that’s traceable, controllable... and extremely volatile." he explains.

Kang-hyuk steps in, "So you're saying that there was a bomb here?"

The agent shakes his head, "Not just a bomb—a test unit. Portable. Capable of going critical if handled wrong. The lab’s failsafe should’ve contained it, but the explosion blew everything apart."

"So where is it now?" Ahn starts to demand answers.

Deg. Nothing. For a few seconds, the agent didn't say a word, Kang-hyuk noticed those trembling hands, clearly panicking beneath the surface. Slowly, he grips the agents arm, eyes locked to his, "Where is it." he asked once more. The Agent looks at him, "We... don’t know..." he felt like he was choked by his own words, "The nuclear mass... is missing."

Everyone in the room goes still, the wind howls through the tent, distant sirens echo.

"You’re saying someone could be walking around with a live nuke right now?" Ahn questions with fear in his eyes, and the agent turned his head to him, a slight nod was shown, "Yes. And if they know how to use it... We’re looking at ground zero before the day’s over."

The SWAT commander urgently walks to the table near him and turns on the radio, "All units, lockdown the perimeter. No one in, no one out. Get the bomb squad, NRC, and every satellite feed you can. We’re officially in red-level crisis." he then turns his head to Kang-hyuk, "Professor, I need you to get back to the hospital with my other SWAT unit, they will be inspecting the whole hospital. If this bomb slipped out from the facility, there's a chance that now it's resting in that hospital, with all of your patient's."

---

Hankuk National University Hospital

It's been 3 hours since the accident happened, everyone at the trauma center is now at their normal pace, no one's running around frantically, nor rushing to save critical patients. Patients are now in a stable state and are being taken care of by doctors and nurses. Dong-Ju just finished his 2-hour surgery on a patient who had a shattered femur and abdominal bleeding. He saw Nurse Agnes at the nurse station, sitting, flipping through patient's file records.

He walks up to her and leans tiredly to the edge of the counter, "Hey... Nurse Agnes."

Nurse Agnes looks up and smiles faintly, "You look like you just went twelve rounds with a bulldozer."

"Two-hour surgery. The femur was shattered beyond recognition. We stabilized, but the abdominal bleed almost took him. It was like stitching together smoke." Dong-Ju half laughs and slumps against the counter. Nurse Agnes sighs softly, "But you saved him?" Dong-Ju nodded quietly, "For now..."

He paused for a moment and glanced at the nearby monitors, he only saw patients resting and nurses checking in on them. Dong-Ju looks back at her, "Where's Dr. Yang? I haven’t seen him since the patient came in." he asks as he continues to glance through the trauma center, still no sight of him.

Dong-Ju could see Nurse Agnes's expression shift slightly, cautious.

"He’s downstairs in Imaging. He’s been pacing like a storm cloud. That guy from the lab… he’s not just another case, is he?" Dong-Ju could see the worry on her face. He slightly rubs his temples, then sighs, "No. There’s something else going on. The contamination warning was triggered in the OR. And I overheard one of the security guys saying a nuclear response team was called in."

Nurse Agnes's brow furrowed, she lowers her voice, "Nuclear? Are you serious?"

"I don’t know how much we’re supposed to know, but Dr. Yang… he saw the patient’s ID tag. Said he recognized the lab name. And now he won’t stop digging."

Dong-Ju lets out a small sigh, Nurse Agnes was quiet but she looks back at him, her eyes were firm, "Then you both better be careful. When government people start showing up in clean suits, it’s not just about saving lives anymore. It’s about silencing witnesses." She was worried, and he noticed it.

Dong-Ju looks at her for a long moment. The usual lightness between them, replaced with a mutual understanding; this is bigger than medicine now.

He nods understandingly, "Let me go find him before he does something reckless." he said softly.

Nurse Agnes nods in agreement, then hands him a fresh pair of gloves and a bottle of water, "Try not to do the same."

A slight chuckle came out from him. He accepted the gloves and water from Nurse Agnes and starts to walk away from the Nurse Station, on his way to find Jaewon. 

After seeing him leave, Nurse Agnes continues her work, then Jang-Mi walks in with Gyeongwon and Kang-hyuk. Shocked to see Kang-hyuk, Nurse Agnes stood up from her seat, "Professor Baek?!" Kang-hyuk looks at her and shows a faint smile, "Long day, Nurse Agnes~" Jang-Mi and Gyeongwon made a small laugh after hearing his words. Indeed, it has been a very long and tiring day, no need to say it twice. The whole trauma team is beat.

"You should be resting, Professor." Nurse Agnes added as she gave a bottle of water to the three of them, Kang-hyuk accepted the water and shook his head, "There's no time for resting. I'm pretty sure you've heard of the nuclear mass report?" 

Nurse Agnes nods, "Yes. Dong-Ju told me just a while ago."

"Where is he now?" Kang-hyuk asks.

"He went to the imaging room to find Dr. Yang. Dong-Ju told me that Dr. Yang noticed the lab name on a patient's ID card when they came in, and it seems now, he's gone full-on detective mode." she explains carefully.

Jang-Mi's brow furrowed and turns to Kang-hyuk, "I don't like this... I have a bad feeling about all of this..." She was getting worried about this whole situation. Kang-hyuk understands her very well, he let out a soft sigh, "Hey Gangster~" his tone was soft; he was trying to calm her down. "You focus on the patient's, I'll deal with this mess, alright~" He tilted his head and gripped her arm, giving soft caresses and a small smile—which seemingly looks like a grin to her. 

"Imaging room, right?" he asked again to Nurse Agnes. She then nods as an answer.

Kang-hyuk made up his mind and decided to go after them. His No. 1 and No. 2, who are now in the middle of putting their nose to something they're not supposed to ever lurk for. Well, what can he say? They are both indeed his students. He has taught them well to the point that they're too good to ever handle alone.

---

Imaging Room

The hallway is quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. Dong-Ju walks down the corridor, still in his post-op scrubs. He spots Jaewon standing stiffly outside the CT control room, arms crossed, staring at the screen through the glass.

He sighs in relief to find him there, "There you are."

"You finished the surgery?" asks Jaewon without glancing a look to him.

Dong-Ju hummed, "Yeah. He’s stable. Barely. We had to pack the liver and clamp the pelvic bleeds. I’ve never seen that much internal damage from a blast survivor."

"Because it wasn’t just a blast. Look at this." Jaewon said suddenly. He steps aside. Dong-Ju walks up to the glass and peers in. On the screen is the patient’s full-body CT scan—and something unusual. A cluster of foreign metallic fragments glowing faintly in the abdominal cavity.

"What the hell...?" Dong-Ju immediately looks at Jaewon, demanding an explanation from him about all of this.

Jaewon starts to explain slowly, "I asked radiology to run a deeper scan. That mass near his kidney? It’s not shrapnel. It’s shielded. And it’s emitting low gamma levels."

"You think he swallowed something radioactive?" Dong-Ju was confused.

"Or someone hid it inside him before the explosion." Their eyes lock. A silence stretches between them. "Sunbae, this isn’t just trauma. This is something else. Something we’re not supposed to find." 

Suddenly, the lights in the hallway flicker. A sharp knock echoes from behind. They both turn to see two unfamiliar men in dark suits and ID badges approaching—no hospital insignia. One holds a black case. The other speaks, "Doctors. We need you to step away from the monitors. That scan is now classified."

Jaewon frowns and takes a step forward, "He’s our patient." he stated.

"Not anymore. He’s under federal protection and control. You’ll be briefed officially." said the man in dark suit.

Jaewon wasn't going to give up that easily. "If there’s radiation inside his body, he’s still at risk. You can’t just take—"

"This isn’t a request. This is a directive." The man cuts in and starts to walk closer as a warning. The other man with a black case walks closer to the computer, slides a USB from the console, and shuts down the imaging system. The room goes dark. The two men started to walk away from the room and leaving the two speechless. 

"We need to copy those files next time. Whatever that thing is… we just became part of something way bigger than medicine." said Dong-Ju quietly after the two men they encountered left.

Jaewon was still staring at the blank screen, "We were trained to save lives, not keep secrets."

Dong-Ju was half-smiling, yet exhausted, but sharp, "Guess we’re learning on the job."

Chapter Text

Tonight, the trauma center has calmed down. Patients sleeping soundlessly, monitors beeping, the scent of antiseptic was clear now. Jang-Mi and Nurse Agnes are the ones on call for tonight. The two were in the middle of inputting patients data into the system.

The trauma bay hums softly in the background. Fluorescent lights flicker as Nurse Agnes tidies up at the nurse station. The quiet is too heavy. She flips through the lab patient’s chart absently—until something catches her eye, frowning, "That's... not right."

"What's not right?" asks Jang-Mi suddenly, eyes still focused on the screen, but she is curious to know what Nurse Agnes found.

Nurse Agnes starts to turn the pages. At first glance, the records look normal: vitals, scans, surgery log. But on the back cover, there’s a barcode sticker that doesn’t match the hospital’s registry system. She peels it away carefully, revealing something printed underneath.

—PROJECT ITHACA: CARRIER 04-EX

"...Carrier?" Before she could react further, footsteps echoed behind her. She quickly slams the file shut just as Chief Han rounds the corner with a cup of tea in hand. Casually, he walks to the nurse station and hands a cup of tea to her, "Late night?" he asks quietly.

Nurse Agnes accepts the cut of tea and smiles thinly, "Could say the same to you, Chief."

Chief Han was eyeing the chart that Agnes was holding. "Lab case patient?"

"Just reviewing post-op. Making sure no one missed anything… unusual." said Nurse Agnes in a casual tone, too casual.

Suddenly, a voice cuts in behind them—light, playful, but sharp, "Unusual like a rogue data tag encoded in a defunct military format? Yeah, I noticed that too." Nurse Agnes turns, surprised. Jang-mi walks up to her after checking on one of the patients, tapping on her tablet, which shows a mirrored image of the barcode Nurse Agnes just uncovered.

"Out of curiosity, do we usually register trauma patients with encrypted tags that ping off defense databases?" asks Jang-Mi to Chief Han.

Chief Han blinks once then smiles, "Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with the IT department." he says with an eyebrow raised, arms crossed. Jang-Mi lets out a small scoff and smiles right back at him—it was a playful smile, "Yeah, well, the IT department didn’t try to erase its own records three times this week."

There’s a flicker of something in Chief Han’s expression—not quite anger, but calculation. He steps forward, slow and smooth, "Ladies… curiosity is good. But remember—in this hospital, lives depend on discretion."

Jang-Mi steps forward, "And discretion doesn’t mean turning a blind eye." Her tone was cold, her stare were deep yet dark. Chief Han doesn’t answer. He simply sets his teacup down, offers a nod, and walks off down the hall. The moment he’s out of earshot, Nurse Agnes exhales. "Well, that wasn’t terrifying at all." she sighs in relief—but of course, she was being sarcastic.

Jang-Mi looks back at the chart that Nurse Agnes was holding and the tablet that shows the image of a barcode, "' Carrier 04-EX.’ Whatever that means... we need to find the others." The two exchanged looks. War is brewing, and they’re already in the middle of it.

---

Hospital Rooftop

After having a mysterious encounter with two men in black suits, Jaewon decided to clear his mind at the hospital's rooftop. This spot has become his favorite spot to unwind—thanks to Jang-Mi, who took him to this place a year ago, telling him to curse out his rage—Dong-Ju joined him as well. The two were leaning against the railings, staring at the night lights, cars passing by, the cold breeze touching their skin.

Jaewon lets out a tired sigh. Dong-Ju noticed it and turned to him, "Sunbae, is there something wrong?" he asks with concern.

"You can tell, huh?" Jaewon's smile was soft. "Dong-Ju... You ever think we’re not saving people anymore? Just... patching up damage control for other people’s mistakes?" his mind was messy; he couldn't think straight at this point. Everything today, was just too much for him. 

Dong-Ju sighs quietly to his question, "Every day. But if we don’t, no one else will."

Jaewon nodded in agreement. He let out another sigh and continues to enjoy the view right in front of him. At the very least, the night lights at the sound of bustling cars could distract him from his noisy thoughts.

Not long after, he hears the rooftop doors opening, Dong-Ju turns around and finds Kang-hyuk approaching them, "Hey No. 2!" Dong-Ju reflexively got tensed and stood up straight, "Yes, Professor!" It felt like he was back in the military. 

Kang-hyuk's gaze were firm, "Don't you have rounds to do?" he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at him.

Dong-Ju took the hint and immediately left, "Ah! Yes, Professor, I'll head back downstairs." he made a small glance at Jaewon, and Jaewon made a small nod to him. He then walked away from the edge of the rooftop and passed Kang-hyuk; from the look he was giving, it sent shivers down his spine. Dong-Ju made a crooked smile and lef from his sight. 

Kang-hyuk grins playfully as he sees his student leaving with that crooked smile. He then looks back at Jaewon, who was still standing, leaning against the railings. The sun hangs low, casting soft gold across the hospital rooftop. The city stretches out in every direction, but up here, it’s quieter—a temporary escape.

Jaewon was still in his scrubs, arms crossed, lost in thought. The burn from this morning's explosion is healing, but the weight of what he saw hasn’t faded. Kang-hyuk steps closer to him, two cans of vending machine coffee in hand, and stands beside him with his hands in his pockets, "enjoying the view." Jaewon grins softly, he know's damn well that his mentor was just making small talks, "I know your busy Professor, so whatever you have to say..." Jaewon turns to Kang-hyuk, meeting his eyes, " Say it now."

Kang-hyuk slowly sighs, "You always come up here when you’re thinking too much." he says softly.

"It’s either this or I punch a wall. And Jang-Mi gets mad when I do that." Kang-hyuk could hear a faint chuckle coming from him. He hands him one of the coffees and joins him at the railing. The silence between them is comfortable—but heavy.

"You haven’t said anything since the explosion." Jaewon raises an eyebrow to him, "Because I don’t know what to say." he says quietly.

A long pause happened, but Jaewon finally spoke again, "That patient… the one they pulled from the lab. There’s something wrong with him. A cluster of foreign metallic fragments glowing faintly in the abdominal cavity. And the blood scan showed radiation markers that shouldn’t be there. At all."

Kang-hyuk nods slowly, "I looked at the floor plans for that facility. Half of it wasn’t even on the blueprints." he explained. Jaewon slightly tilts his head, confused, "Someone’s hiding something. And we’re not supposed to ask questions?" Kang-hyuk glances at him, serious this time, "Earlier, while you were in the imaging room… Nurse Agnes told me that she found something in the patient’s chart. A barcode under the hospital ID sticker. It was labeled: Project Ithaca: Carrier 04-EX."

Jaewon's eyes widen slightly, he straightens, "Carrier? Of what, exactly?"

"We don’t know. But if there’s a 04… that means there are others." Jaewon could see Kang-hyuk's frustration. Jaewon rubs his face, processing. Then exhales, frustrated, "This morning we were patching up burn victims. Now we’re accidentally digging into black-ops medical experiments?"

"And I have a feeling we haven’t even scratched the surface yet." says Kang-hyuk quietly with a slight nod.

Another pause. The wind picks up gently, Jaewon's expression darkens, "Someone’s going to try and bury this. Erase it. Just like that lab. Burn the evidence and make sure no one asks questions." The darkness starts to consume him, and Kang-hyuk notices it. He tries to calm him down and steps closer, "Then we ask the questions before they do." he tries to reassure him.

Their eyes meet. A beat passes—an unspoken agreement forming.

Jaewon’s voice was quiet, edged with concern, "This could get dangerous."

Kang-hyuk didn’t look at him right away. He stood beside him, gaze fixed on the skyline, hands tucked in his coat pockets, the wind brushing against the edges of his sleeves. His voice, when it came, was calm—but low, firm, like he meant every word more than he let on.

"So don’t go charging in alone."

Jaewon cracked the faintest smile—barely a twitch at the corner of his lips, like something in Kang-hyuk’s constant warnings both exasperated and softened him. He looked away again, just for a moment. Then, quieter, "You always say that. But you never say why you care so much."

The words hung there. Sharp, but vulnerable.

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer right away. He sipped his coffee, eyes still on the skyline, but something in his posture shifted—less guarded, less composed. And when he finally spoke, it was soft. No armor, no smirk. Just truth.

"Because every time I look away... I almost lose you."

Jaewon froze. Not visibly—but in that stillness, something fragile bloomed. The tension between them didn’t thicken—it turned bare, exposed. Not heavy. Just raw.

He turned his head slowly, eyes finding Kang-hyuk’s. No games now. No sarcasm. Just that steady, burning gaze he couldn’t look away from.

And then, a murmur.

A dare.

A plea.

"...Don’t blink then."

Kang-hyuk turned to face him fully.

His gaze was steady—intense, but not overpowering. Deep in those eyes was something unspoken: the weight of what they’d never said, the ache of what they kept choosing not to say. It wasn’t a confession. Not yet.

But it was close.

So damn close.

"I won’t."

The wind moved around them, gentle but cold, carrying with it the electricity of almosts. They stood side by side, the skyline ahead, but neither of them looked at it anymore.

The only thing either of them saw was each other.

---

Trauma Center Unit

Kang-huk and Jaewon eventually came back to the Trauma Center Unit, they two still had to look over patients, and with them being the ones on-call tonight, theres no time to rest—just pure work 24/7.

Nurse Agnes had left her shift an hour ago. Jang-Mi's the one who's left at the nurse station. Well, at least she's not alone. Having Jaewon and Kang-hyuk on-call makes things better for her. Other nurses are on-call as well, residents and attendings passing by, checking on patients.

She was too focused on her tablet, she didn't notice Jaewon calling her name, "Jang-Mi?"

She blinked, looking up from her tablet. Her eyes were rimmed with fatigue. “Jaewon,” she said, startled. “I didn’t see you there.”

“You’ve been staring at that tab like it wronged you,” he said gently, though his voice was worn thin with exhaustion.

She gave a weak laugh, rubbing her temples. “Feels like it did.”

Behind him, Kang-hyuk walked past with a tablet in hand, his expression unreadable. He barely glanced at the two of them as he headed toward ICU Room 3.

Jang-Mi watched him go. “He’s been quiet tonight.”

Jaewon’s gaze lingered on Kang-hyuk’s retreating figure. “He’s tired.”

“You both are.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, broken only by the distant beeping of machines and the muffled voices of a team intubating a patient in the next ward. Then Jaewon spoke again, softer this time, “You should take five, Jang-mi. Go breathe. I’ve got this.”

Jang-Mi hesitated, eyes flicking toward the ICU doors. “What about you and Professor Baek?”

He smiled faintly. “We got this.” he assured her, "You've been working nonstop for the whole day, you deserve a 15-minute sleep."

He was right, though. Jang-mi weighed on the thought, then finally nodded and stood from her chair. "Alright. But page me when an emergency comes in, okay?" she adds firmly. Jaewon nodded and took he paperwork away from her hands, "Now go. Before I page you back to the nurse station." He was teasing, of course. Jang-Mi chuckled, then left the nurse station happily.

Jaewon sighs. He takes a look at the file that Jang-Mi was observing before, "Project ITHACA 04-EX?", his voice was subtle, no one realized his frown, not until Kang-hyuk walks to him and asks, "You reading classified files now?” Jaewon doesn’t startle, but his fingers tighten slightly around the clipboard. “It was on her screen. I didn’t go digging.”

Kang-hyuk glances at the file, then at Jaewon, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “You shouldn’t say that name out loud here.”

“She’s logging patient history. Why is that name still showing up in our system?” Jaewon’s voice is quiet, but there’s a sharpness to it now—tight, restrained. "Didn't come agency wipe out the whole system about the todays patients log from the explosion site?"

Kang-hyuk exhales slowly, as if he doesn’t want to have this conversation in the hallway. “Come with me.”

Jaewon furrows his brows. “Where?”

But Kang-hyuk’s already walking, not toward ICU Room 3 this time, but toward the stairwell at the far end of the corridor. Without a word, Jaewon follows

Kang-hyuk stood still at the stairwell, doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just leans on it, the tablet still in Jaewon’s hand. He steps beside him. “You’ve been quiet ever since you got back from the explosion site.”

Kang-hyuk shrugs, but the movement is too sharp to be casual. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Right,” Jaewon mutters. “Except for the fact that Project Ithaca’s still showing up in our trauma center. That’s not nothing.”

Kang-hyuk’s jaw clenches. He still doesn’t look at him. “It was supposed to be terminated.”

He sounds different now. Not defensive. Not evasive. Just… shaken.

They climb in silence—just the scuff of their shoes on concrete and the humming buzz of fluorescent lights. Jaewon frowns as they reach the landing between two floors. The overhead light flickers faintly, casting long shadows across the concrete walls. The stairwell is silent, save for the distant hum of the trauma center below.

“What do you mean?” Jaewon asks.

Kang-hyuk’s eyes stay on the scuffed metal railing, but his grip tightens around it. “There was a mission. Years ago. Back when I was still with Black Wings.”

Jaewon stiffens beside him, heart suddenly pounding louder in the stillness.

“We were deployed to an underground research facility—remote, off-the-record. Our orders were to evacuate civilians and secure experimental data before the site went dark.”

Jaewon doesn’t say anything, just listens.

“They said it was medical research. Human trial stage. Classified clearance. But we knew something was off—the patients weren’t patients." Kang-hyuk paused for a moment, then continues. "Not really. They were restrained. Sedated. Some were already dead when we got there.” His voice echoes slightly in the stairwell, flat and haunted.

“The data we retrieved… it was labeled Ithaca. I didn’t think about it at the time. Just followed orders, got my team out. Never looked back.”

Jaewon’s voice is a whisper now. “But you remember it now.”

Kang-hyuk finally turns to face him. The dim emergency light overhead casts a hard line across his face, his expression unreadable—except for the weight in his eyes. “Because it’s the same project code showing up in our patient logs. Same pattern of symptoms. Same unnatural silences in the system. And someone’s still running trials.”

The air feels heavier in the enclosed stairwell. Claustrophobic. Suffocating.

“You think they restarted it?” Jaewon says.

Kang-hyuk exhales slowly. “I think they never stopped.”

A sharp, rapid beep pierced through the stillness. Both men froze. It was coming from Kang-hyuk’s pager.

CODE BLUE – ICU, ROOM 4.
Patient: Park Seo-jin – Status: CRITICAL.

Jaewon barely had time to react before another pager went off—this time his own.

CODE BLUE – ICU, ROOM 6.
Patient: Nam Hae-in – Status: CRITICAL.

They stared at each other, just for a beat. And then they moved.

Jaewon was already pulling out his pager as they bolted down the stairs. “Jang-Mi, it's me. Code Blue in Rooms 4 and 6—get back to the ICU now. I need the rapid response team and crash carts prepped, now!”

“On my way!” Jang-Mi’s voice crackled through, breathless but focused.

They burst through the ICU doors just as nurses scrambled toward the respective rooms. The low, erratic hum of failing heart monitors filled the space with dread.

Jaewon didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take Seo-jin.”

“I’ve got Hae-in,” Kang-hyuk replied, already slipping on gloves and snapping orders at the assisting nurses.

Room 4 was chaos. Park Seo-jin’s vitals were crashing—BP plummeting, pulse weak and thready. Jaewon pressed the back of his gloved hand against the patient's forehead—burning hot. Sweating. “He’s going septic,” he muttered. “Blood pressure’s tanking. I need a central line, now. Push 1mg epinephrine. Intubation tray ready!”

In Room 6, Kang-hyuk was already performing chest compressions. “We need to get him prepped for emergency thoracotomy. His lungs are compromised—possible radiation-induced pneumonitis with bleeding.”

A nurse called out, “Sats dropping to 68. Heart rhythm’s unstable!”

Kang-hyuk’s voice was clipped, razor-sharp. “Get OR 2 ready. He won’t make it if we delay.”

Jaewon called through the door, “I’m pushing Seo-jin to surgery too. Possible multi-organ failure—kidney shutdown, maybe internal bleeding we missed!”

Jang-Mi appeared at the junction, breathless from running. “Ambulance bay’s clear—we’ll reroute through Corridor C to the OR. We’ll need backup!”

Jaewon gritted his teeth. “There’s no time. We are the backup. Page Gyeong-Won from Anesthesiologist!”

They were already moving—Jaewon and Kang-hyuk wheeling the beds themselves, crash carts rattling beside them, nurses running to keep up. The hallway blurred past. The lights above flickered with a strange, rhythmic pulse—almost like a countdown.

Two patients. Two doctors. One shared nightmare. And somewhere in the back of their minds, even as they fought to keep lives from slipping through their fingers, the same name pulsed quietly in their thoughts: ITHACA.

---

Operating Room 3

Jaewon leaned over Park Seo-jin’s open abdominal cavity, brow furrowed under his surgical cap. Blood loss had been heavier than expected, and the tissues looked… wrong. Burnt, almost necrotic. Radiation damage, he told himself.

Jang-Mi handed him the suction tube without a word, her gloved hands steady but tense. Across the table, Gyeong-Won monitored the vitals, calling out updates.

"BP holding at 90 over 60. Heart rate stabilizing," Gyeong-Won stated. Jaewon nodded, focusing. His fingers moved carefully, isolating the bleeding vessel—and then he felt it.

Something hard. Unnatural. Embedded deep inside the tissue, near the liver.

He frowned, glancing at Jang-Mi. "Retractor," he said quietly. As he eased the organ aside, his fingers brushed against a small, cold object—metallic, foreign. A strange clicking sensation vibrated through his glove. Before he could even react, a low, mechanical voice whispered from somewhere inside the patient:

Countdown initiated. 1 hour.

Jaewon froze. His heart thundered.

Jang-Mi’s eyes widened. “What was that?”

Gyeong-Won looked up sharply from the monitors. "Doctor?"

Jaewon’s mind raced. The device wasn’t external. It was inside the patient. And if the mechanical voice was right—

It was a bomb. Or something dangerously close to one. He forced himself to stay calm. "Clamp everything. Now. Back away slowly from the table."

Jang-Mi was trembling, but obeyed without question. Gyeong-Won hesitated a second longer, then joined her at the wall. Jaewon pressed his hands around the area, feeling the faint vibration of the device ticking under his palms. 

59 minutes, fifty seconds.

---

Operating Room 4

Meanwhile, on the other side of the ICU, Kang-hyuk was deep in thoracic surgery with Nam Hae-in. The bleeding in the lungs was worse than he thought; the sutures barely held under the delicate pressure.

The doors burst open—and Dong-Ju, in scrubs and gloves, hurried in. “You paged?” Dong-Ju said, stepping into position without waiting for orders.

Kang-hyuk nodded tightly. “Good. Suction here. I’m closing the left pulmonary artery. Keep an eye on his vitals.”

Dong-Ju worked quickly, focused on the surgical field, unaware of anything wrong beyond the critical nature of the injury. Kang-hyuk, for his part, didn’t notice the tension that was beginning to ripple faintly through the corridors outside—nurses whispering, orders flying just a little too urgently. 

Back in OR 3

Jaewon fought to stay rational. His hands hovered above the exposed cavity.

Fifty-nine minutes, 40 seconds

Think. Think. He couldn’t see the device fully—it was embedded deep. Cutting it out would risk detonating it faster. Moving the patient might trigger it too. He needed help, but first, he needed to inform the whole hospital that they needed to get the Hospital in full lockdown. This is the time for him to call out a Code Black—a threat to the safety of individuals, often involving an armed or unarmed aggressor, a bomb threat, or a similar situation.

"Jaewon..." Jang-Mi’s voice shook. The surgical lights above them cast long, sharp shadows across the room. Jaewon’s gaze was pinned to the open cavity. To the hidden device ticking down toward oblivion. He didn’t even look at her when he spoke.

“Jang-Mi. Listen to me.”

She nodded quickly, eyes wide.

“You need to get out of here. Now.”

“But—”

“Go.” His voice was firmer, low but absolute. “Get to the nearest comm panel and report a Code Black hospital-wide. Full lockdown. Evacuation of non-critical patients. I need everyone to clear of this floor, now.”

Her breath caught, a tremor of fear passing through her, but she recognized the tone in Jaewon's voice: command. No argument. No time. Gyeong-won hesitated too, fear warring with duty, but Jaewon barked out again, “Both of you—Go! That’s an order!” With one last, terrified look at him, Jang-Mi and Gyeong-Won bolted for the OR doors, bursting into the hall.

Jaewon stayed behind, alone with the patient—and the soft, relentless ticking.

Fifty-nine minutes, thirty seconds.

---

The hospital’s overhead speakers crackled sharply.

Then Jang-Mi’s voice rang out, strained but firm: "Attention all staff and patients: Initiating Code Black. Repeat: Code Black. Evacuate non-critical areas immediately. This is not a drill."

A beat of stunned silence—then chaos exploded. Nurses rushed to evacuate floors. Security shutters rumbled into place. Red emergency lights flared to life, bathing the hallways in pulsing crimson.

---

Operating Room 4

Kang-hyuk’s sutures paused mid-stitch as the announcement boomed overhead.

Code Black. He went cold.

Dong-Ju looked up sharply from his side of the table. “What’s going on—?” Kang-hyuk’s jaw locked tight. He knew what Code Black meant. Immediate threat—bomb, chemical attack, or active shooter. And something twisted violently in his gut.

Jaewon.

Was he caught up in it? Was he safe?

Kang-hyuk's hands flexed unconsciously, surgical gloves squeaking under the strain. But he couldn’t move. His patient’s chest was still open. Bleeding. Vulnerable. His instincts screamed to run, to find Jaewon, but his training anchored him where he was.

"Focus," Kang-hyuk growled under his breath, forcing his mind into cold clarity. "We finish this surgery, then we move."

Dong-Ju nodded, though his hands shook slightly. Kang-hyuk bent back over the patient, but his mind wasn’t in the room anymore. It was already racing down the corridors, searching for Jaewon in the chaos.

---

Operating Room 3

Fifty-nine minutes remaining.

Jaewon wiped the sweat from his brow, staring down at the metal embedded in Park Seo-jin’s body.

He was alone now. He had one hour. And he had no idea how to stop the clock.

Chapter Text

Operating Room 3

Jaewon knelt half-over the operating table, frozen. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck under the surgical gown.

Fifty-seven minutes left.

His breathing stayed even only because he forced it. One wrong move, and it's over. The OR doors slammed open with a bang. Jang-Mi and Gyeong-Won skidded back inside—followed by armed tactical officers in SWAT gear, bomb disposal packs strapped to their backs. Jang-Mi’s face was white as paper, her eyes locking onto Jaewon across the room.

“Dr. Yang...” the SWAT commander barked, voice clipped and hard over the intercom system. “Stay completely still. We’re assessing.”

Jaewon didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. The SWAT team fanned out, one member pulling out a mobile scanner while another spoke rapidly into a radio. The scanner beeped ominously as it passed over the exposed surgical site. The bomb was confirmed. 

---

Outside OR 3 – Corridor

Kang-hyuk charged down the hallway, dodging evacuees, still in half-scrubs, blood staining his gloves.

Dong-Ju chased after him, face stricken. "Hyung—Hyung, slow down—!"

They skidded to a stop outside the cordoned zone. Yellow hazard tape stretched across the floor, and two Trauma Center security guards barred the way. Beyond them, Kang-hyuk could see the swarm of SWAT officers in front of Operating Room 3.

Jaewon was inside.

Chief Han stormed toward Kang-hyuk, intercepting him before he could break through the barricade. “Professor Baek—stand down! That’s an active bomb threat!”

"You don't understand!" Kang-hyuk barked, shoving past him a step before being grabbed again. "He's still inside—Jaewon's in there!"

The chief’s face twisted in frustration. “We know! The SWAT team is working on it! Don’t make this worse—!”

Kang-hyuk jerked his arm away, fists clenching helplessly. Behind him, Jang-Mi had just rejoined Gyeong-Won and Dong-Ju, her hands shaking. Tears welled up in her eyes. “He’s—he’s still on the table," she whispered brokenly. "He didn't leave. He stayed to keep it from detonating.”

Dong-Ju swore viciously under his breath, punching the wall.

---

Operating Room 3 - Minutes Later

Jaewon stayed utterly still, his breathing shallow. The mechanical voice counted down softly in the background: "Fifty-three minutes remaining."

The SWAT team's explosives specialist, crouched outside the glass windows, clicked the intercom on. "Dr. Yang" The voice was sharp but calm. "This is Officer Lee, Bomb Disposal. We're going to guide you. Step by step. Listen carefully." Jaewon managed a nod, his hands trembling.

"First, keep your left hand steady. Any sudden release of pressure could trigger acceleration." Jaewon gritted his teeth. “Understood,” he said hoarsely. Through the window, Kang-hyuk stood stiff, frozen, watching everything.

Kang-hyuk could see the blood pooling around Jaewon's gloves and the way his body hunched over to shield the patient—and the device. He pressed his hand against the glass. Come on, Jaewon. Come on.

Another voice came through the intercom, "We're bringing in a mobile isolation chamber. We're going to try to seal you and the patient in, Doctor. We need time to defuse it safely."

Jaewon gave a small, barely perceptible nod. "You’re doing good, Dr. Yang." Officer Lee's voice said. "Just breathe. We’ll handle this together."

---

Jang-Mi couldn’t stop crying now, hiding it behind her hand. Dong-Ju turned to Gyeong-Won, voice low and shaking, "He's buying us time. He's holding it so it won’t blow up the whole damn hospital."

Kang-hyuk barely heard them. His heart was thundering against his ribs. He needed to be in there. He should be the one in there, not Jaewon. Through the glass, their eyes met for half a second.

And Jaewon smiled faintly—calm, steady—even as sweat poured down his temple. Like he was saying: It's okay, hyung. Stay there. I’ve got this.

Kang-hyuk's hand slid down the glass. "Jaewon..." he whispered, a raw sound no one else heard.

Operating Room 3

Jaewon listened intently as Officer Lee began walking him through the next steps, "We need you to slowly—very, very carefully—detach the clamps from the surrounding tissue. Start with the lowest point of pressure." Jaewon swallowed hard, his hands slick inside his gloves.

He started moving. One millimeter at a time.

Clock: 50 minutes.

The device hummed under his fingers. The entire hospital seemed to hold its breath. And Kang-hyuk, fists clenched, could do nothing but watch the person he cared about most risking everything—alone.

---

Operating Room 3 – 50 minutes remaining

Jaewon’s hands hovered over the small metallic device lodged against Park Seo-jin’s liver. Officer Lee’s voice guided him from the intercom, "Left clamp first. Gentle pressure. Don’t tug—slide." Jaewon moved slowly. Millimeter by millimeter. One breath at a time.

49:58.

49:57.

But then—click.

A soft sound. Too soft. Jaewon froze. The lights on the device blinked red.

Suddenly—"Pressure trigger misaligned. Countdown acceleration initiated."

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The mechanical voice was no longer calm. “Countdown: 29 minutes.”

Jaewon’s eyes widened. “No no no—” Outside the room, the screen flashed. Alarms wailed.

The digital monitor above the operating room door changed from 50:00 to 29:00. The air sucked out of Kang-hyuk’s lungs. He screamed. “WHAT HAPPENED?! WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED!?” He slammed both fists against the glass, blood splattering from his knuckles. Dong-Ju tried to grab him, but Kang-hyuk shoved him off. “OPEN THE DOOR! LET ME IN—JAEWON!!”

He banged again. The glass didn’t even tremble.

Chief Han grabbed him by the arm. “You can’t go in there! He’s trained! You’re not!”

“I AM MUCH MORE TRAINED! YOU KNOW THAT CHIEF HAN!” Kang-hyuk roared, eyes wild. “NOW LET ME IN OR HE’S GOING TO DIE!”

Inside the OR, Jaewon flinched at the sound of the voice through the wall—his voice. He heard it. And he felt the weight of it crash into his spine like a tidal wave.

Inside OR 3 – 28 minutes 50 seconds

“Dr. Yang, listen to me.” Officer Lee's voice was sharper now, tight with urgency. “You triggered a proximity sensor. We need you to hold still while we reset the guidance.” Jaewon’s fingers were trembling now. His throat was dry. “I—I moved it the way you said—"

“We know. It must have shifted from the internal bleeding. It’s not your fault.” Officer Lee tries to calm him down, “But you need to not move again. Do you understand me, Dr. Yang?” he repeats himself once again.

“…Yeah,” Jaewon whispered. “I understand.” But his eyes flicked to the glass. To him. To Kang-hyuk, shaking with rage and panic, pounding fists against the barrier. Jaewon managed a smile. Just barely.

He mouthed the words, “It’s okay... Stay there.”

Kang-hyuk could clearly read the words Jaewon mouthed to him, but he shakes his head “No, no—he’s not okay,” Kang-hyuk said, backing away, panic turning into something feral. “He doesn’t do that—he doesn’t say ‘stay there’ unless—” He turned to Chief Han. “LET ME IN! I CAN HELP HIM—I KNOW HIS HEAD, I KNOW HOW HE THINKS, HE’S—”

“You will KILL HIM if you go in there!” Chief Han snapped, grabbing him hard. “You go in, the device senses extra movement—it blows!”

But Kang-hyuk was beyond reason now. He slammed his fists against the glass again, tears brimming in his eyes. “JAEWON—!”

Dong-Ju pulled him back, nearly wrestling him down. “Hyung—stop! He’s still alive!”

“But for how long?!” Kang-hyuk was shaking. He looked back at the OR—and saw Jaewon trembling over the table, hands frozen mid-motion, soaked in blood and sweat, trying to stay composed while death sat beneath his fingers.

Inside OR 3 – 27 minutes 40 seconds

“Dr. Yang, we’re re-routing our bomb squad to the sub-basement to cut the signal trigger. If this device is externally linked, we might be able to delay detonation.”

Jaewon barely heard them. His ears were ringing. The timer blinked beside the surgical lights. His fingers cramped, locked in place. He whispered under his breath, only for himself, “…I don’t want to die here.” He didn’t want this to be the end. Not when Kang-hyuk was right there. Not when there were things he still hadn’t said.

Corridor – 27:15

Kang-hyuk pressed both palms against the glass. His voice broke into a whisper. “Jaewon… don’t you dare die on me. Don’t you—fucking—dare.” Behind him, Dong-Ju turned away, blinking tears. Jang-Mi was sobbing openly now. Everyone else had backed off. Only Kang-hyuk remained at the glass.

Waiting.

Watching.

Desperate.

27 minutes left. One heartbeat at a time, and Jaewon held a bomb in his hands—with nothing but Kang-hyuk’s voice and a pair of shaking gloves keeping him alive.

---

Operating Room 3 – 25 minutes left

The countdown hummed like a heartbeat, “Twenty-five minutes remaining.”

Inside the sterile cold of OR3, Jaewon’s arms were shaking. His back screamed from holding the same position for so long. Blood soaked his gloves. His eyes stung. He was trying so hard to stay calm. But it was getting harder to breathe.

The intercom clicked. A voice—not Officer Lee's voice, but Kang-hyuk’s. "Yang Jaewon... It's me..."

Jaewon’s head lifted slowly. He didn’t dare move his hands, but his shoulders twitched like he wanted to turn toward the sound.

His voice came out rough, dry. “…Hyung?” he was too stunned to use honorifics; it was spontaneous to call him 'Hyung', but it is the only way for him to calm down. For a second, hearing his voice made him forget about the chaos. 

Outside the OR, Kang-hyuk stood before the intercom panel, one hand shaking above the ‘press-to-speak’ button. The SWAT team didn’t stop him. They’d seen his eyes—they knew.

“Jaewon, I’m here,” Kang-hyuk said, voice cracking around the edges. “I’m right outside.”

There was silence. Then, Jaewon’s faint exhale. “I figured. You were always too loud when you panic.” Kang-hyuk laughed—sharp and broken. “I’m not panicking.”

“You’re breaking protocol and talking to me through a restricted channel.” Another laugh breaks, Kang-hyuk meets his eyes,  “…That’s fair.”

Another beat of silence. Then, quieter—“Are you scared?” Jaewon didn’t answer at first. His voice, when it came, was a whisper. “…Yeah.”

Kang-hyuk pressed his forehead to the glass. “Don't be.” Jaewon exhaled shakily, voice trembling now. “I tried, hyung. I tried to stay calm—I followed every step—but I messed up. I must’ve moved wrong. I didn’t mean to. It just—”

Kang-hyuk slammed the button again, “No. Don’t say that. Don’t talk like you’ve already lost.”

“It’s just… if I don’t make it—”

“STOP.” Kang-hyuk’s voice boomed through the OR, sharp as a whip. “Don’t talk like that. You will make it.”

Jaewon’s eyes shimmered. “…Hyung.”

“You still owe me that coffee you promised.”

Jaewon laughed softly, tears slipping down his cheek. “That was four months ago.” Kang-hyuk knew perfectly well what he meant, but he just said that as an excuse, “Exactly. I’ve waited long enough.”

Outside, Jang-Mi pressed a fist to her mouth to muffle her sob. Gyeong-Won turned away completely. Even Officer Lee looked away from the glass. Neither of them coldn't bare to see them like this, seeing how vulnerable Kang-hyuk was, seeing how Jaewon was holding a thread of his dear life—it was all too much to consume.

Jaewon blinked hard. “If this thing goes off—”

“Then you’ll be holding my last nerve when it does, because I swear to God, I’ll be yelling at you all the way to the afterlife.” Jaewon’s breath hitched. “…You’re terrible at comfort.”

Kang-hyuk’s voice softened—like something raw, something cracked open, finally spilled out. “Then let me say it better.” Silence. “I can’t lose you. You hear me, Jaewon? I can’t. Not you. You're my No. 1. Who else is gonna be my No. 1 if not you...”

Jaewon closed his eyes. His lips trembled. He bit down on them to keep from sobbing out loud. “…I know.”

“So hang on. Whatever it takes. Stay with me.” Jaewon smiled through the tears. “I’ll try. Just… keep talking, okay?”

“Always.” Kang-hyuk didn't hesitate, he nods to him—his smile was soft, warm, comforting. 

24 minutes left.

Outside, Kang-hyuk refused to move from the glass. Inside, Jaewon stared ahead—but he wasn’t alone anymore. Not truly. Their voices, cracked and tired, were still linked. Two hearts holding steady, one breath at a time. Even as the bomb ticked louder.

---

The bomb was still ticking.

Jaewon kept his fingers perfectly still, his entire body locked in place over the patient. Sweat dripped from his jawline. His breath came in short bursts. Kang-hyuk’s voice was still fresh in his ear, his words clinging to him like a lifeline. “I can’t lose you... Stay with me.” He was trying. God, he was trying.

Officer Han’s voice crackled again through the intercom, “Dr. Yang, we’re preparing the bypass signal now. Sit tight. You’re doing great.”

Then—A movement. Subtle. Behind him.

Jaewon didn’t see it at first. But he felt it. A shift in air. A step too soft. He turned his head—just enough. And froze. There was a gun. Pointed straight at his head. The man who had been posing as one of the bomb squad techs—helmet still on, visor down—was no longer near the control panel. He was behind Jaewon, arm raised, grip firm, expression calm beneath the shield.

“Don’t move, Doctor.” Jaewon’s pulse spiked. “…Who—?”

“You talk, you die. You twitch, you die faster.” The intercom buzzed again. “Dr. Yang? What’s your status?”

Jaewon didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His gaze locked on the gun. “You weren’t supposed to find the device,” the man said softly, walking slowly around the table, never lowering the weapon. “But you just had to open the patient, didn’t you?”

Jaewon’s voice, when it came, was low, hoarse. “You were in the facility.”

“More than that.” The man tilted his head. “I helped build it.”

Jaewon’s breath hitched. Project ITHACA. “You were one of them.”

“Still am. And right now, you're a threat.”

---

Outside – Observation Hallway

Kang-hyuk’s fists curled. “Why did the feed go dark?!”

Officer Lee stared at the static across the OR camera. “There’s interference—someone’s blocking the signal.” Suddenly, another SWAT member ran up. “Sir, roll call just confirmed—we’re missing one tech.” Kang-hyuk’s blood turned to ice. He stepped back from the window. “…He’s in there.”

---

Inside OR 3 – 22 minutes, 20 seconds

The man took a step closer, the barrel of the gun just inches from Jaewon’s temple. “We can’t have any more loose ends. You shouldn’t even be the one operating this patient.”

Jaewon didn’t flinch. His voice shook—but his eyes were steady. “Well, I guess I’m just one heck of a doctor.”

The man clicked off the safety. “We’ll fix that.”

But before he could fire—CLANG.

The doors slammed shut. Lockdown mode.

And then—“Code Black override authorized. OR lockdown initiated.”

From the intercom came a scream, “JAEWON—SOMEONE’S INSIDE WITH YOU—GET DOWN!!” Kang-hyuk.

The gunman jerked, startled. Jaewon moved—not away, but forward—his hands still over the patient, trying to shield the bomb as much as his body would let him. He hissed through his teeth, voice defiant, “You shoot me, the whole OR goes up in flames. You really want to die in here with me?”

A long silence. The gunman’s finger tensed on the trigger.

Outside, Kang-hyuk was losing his mind. He pounded on the glass, screaming. “DON’T YOU TOUCH HIM—!” Dong-Ju and Jang-Mi were pulling him back, but he broke free. “He’s in there! HE’S IN THERE AND SOMEONE’S GOING TO KILL HIM—”

Inside, the lights flickered. The countdown ticked lower.

21:42.

21:41.

And the man holding the gun… smiled. “Fine. Then we die together.”

---

21 minutes remaining

Jaewon stared down the barrel of the gun, heart in his throat. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

“Last chance,” the intruder growled. “Let go of the patient. Step back.”

Jaewon’s fingers tightened around the surgical clamps, still locked in place over the triggered device inside the abdomen—barely stable, trembling with each passing second. “…I can’t."

“Then you die.”

BANG.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed OR. Jaewon let out a sharp, strangled cry—the bullet tore straight through his left hand, punching clean through the meat between thumb and forefinger.

Blood splattered across his gown, the floor, the surgical table. But somehow—his grip didn’t loosen. His knees buckled slightly. The pain was immediate, white-hot, blinding—but his body stayed put, sheer will locking his muscles in place.

Outside the OR, the sound had echoed like thunder. Kang-hyuk’s scream cracked the hallway walls. “NO!!”

Dong-Ju ran to the door. “Jaewon?!” Jang-Mi shoved past the SWAT tech, slamming her fists against the glass. “JAEWON—SAY SOMETHING!!”

Inside, Jaewon was gasping. Shaking. But he didn’t fall. He didn’t move. Blood poured from his hand onto the surgical table, but he stayed hunched over the patient, the clamps still sealed over the trigger. Through clenched teeth, he growled, “…Not yet… I’m not dying yet…”

The gunman took a step forward, raising the barrel again. “You’re too stubborn for your own good—”

CRASH.

The unexpected happened. The side door burst open. Not from the outside hallway. But from the interstitial passage—a rarely used connection between two ORs used during mass emergencies.

Gyeong-Won stood in the doorway, panting, a metal oxygen tank in his hands. And he swung it—CRACK. The tank slammed into the gunman’s side, sending him sprawling to the ground with a shocked grunt. The gun clattered and skidded under the operating table.

Jaewon let out a choked sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob “What the hell—Gyeong-Won?!”

“I took the emergency path,” Gyeong-Won panted. “I heard the gunshot and—screw it, I wasn't gonna stand there.”

The gunman groaned, trying to crawl for the weapon. But then—BANG. A second shot. This time, through the glass.

Kang-hyuk had grabbed a SWAT rifle. Shot clean through the observation window. The bullet struck the floor, just inches from the crawling man’s hand. “Touch that gun again,” Kang-hyuk snarled through gritted teeth, “and I swear I’ll put the next bullet in your spine.”

The man froze. Alarms were blaring now. SWAT was storming the OR. But Kang-hyuk didn’t wait. He climbed through the shattered glass—blood streaking his arms and uniform—and ran to Jaewon’s side. Jaewon was still holding the clamp. Still bleeding. Still shaking. But his hand hadn’t moved.

Kang-hyuk looked at him, breath catching. “You…” He could see Jaewon's hand bleeding. Possible bone fracture, ripped nurves, loosing sense of motoric throughout his fingers. 

Jaewon’s lips trembled. “…You were right, hyung.”

“About what?”

“…You are louder when you panic.”

Kang-hyuk choked on a laugh—and then pulled him into a half-embrace, careful of the clamp, careful of the blood, of everything—And whispered into his ear, “You stupid, stubborn, brave son of a bitch.” 

20 minutes left.

The bomb hadn’t gone off. But it wasn’t over yet. They still had to take it out. And Jaewon? He wasn’t letting go.

---

Operating Room 3 – 19:45 remaining

Jaewon was pale. Blood was still seeping between his fingers, pooling on the floor. The clamps were slick. His grip was slipping. His hand was useless—the wound was deep, the damage worse than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t hold on much longer.

Kang-hyuk was at his side in an instant, eyes flicking from the open abdomen to the exposed trigger and the glowing red LED screen inside. 19:42.

“Okay,” Jaewon whispered, swaying. “Okay okay okay, listen—hyung—you have to take over the clamps.” Kang-hyuk’s eyes snapped to his. “Jaewon, your hand—”

“I can’t hold it anymore—” Jaewon’s voice cracked. “—If I let go without someone taking over exactly the way I’m holding it, it’ll detonate.”

Kang-hyuk swallowed hard. His hands were already moving. “I’ve got you. Just tell me what to do.”

“Okay—on three. Match the pressure. Don’t shift the angle, not even a degree.”

“Copy. I’ve got you.”

“One… two…” Their eyes locked. “Three.” Jaewon let go—and screamed, falling sideways as Kang-hyuk immediately took the clamps.

His shot hand cradled against his chest, blood dripping from his elbow. But the countdown didn’t speed up. They were stable. 18:58.

“I need to walk you through the bypass, Officer Lee told me how to do it, so I need you to replace me now” Jaewon panted. “Inside the cavity, below the device, there’s a blue wire—don’t touch it. Cut the yellow, then twist the relay cap 90 degrees clockwise.”

Kang-hyuk’s hands didn’t shake. Not once. But his voice was tight. Raw. “Your hand—Jaewon, your hand—”

“It’s fine,” Jaewon lied, blinking back tears. “It’s—hyung—it’s fine. Just focus. I can’t lose anyone else.”

“You’re not losing anyone,” Kang-hyuk growled. “I’m not losing you.”

Jaewon laughed weakly, delirious. “Dramatic.” Kang-hyuk ignored him.

17:12.

“I see the relay,” he muttered. “Cutting yellow… now.” Click. Nothing exploded. Jaewon was trembling harder now. His lips had gone blue. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Good. Good, now… twist the cap… slowly… until you hear two clicks.” Kang-hyuk did as told. Sweat pouring down his temple.

Click.

Click.

The LED countdown froze.

15:33—SYSTEM OVERRIDE – DETONATION ABORTED.

The screen turned black. Silence fell over the OR like a blanket. No beeping. No voice. No death. Just quiet. Just breathing. And then—Jaewon collapsed. His legs gave out. His body hit the floor hard. Blood smeared beneath him as his head lolled to the side.

“JAEWON—!” Kang-hyuk caught him just before his skull hit tile, cradling his body, pressing a hand to the bleeding wound.

“Someone get a gurney—NOW!!” he screamed. Jang-Mi burst through the door with Dong-Ju and Gyeong-Won, all of them stumbling into action. But Kang-hyuk didn’t let go. He was shaking. “Stay with me, Jaewon. Hey—hey, open your eyes. You hear me?” Jaewon’s eyes fluttered weakly open. “I think… I can’t feel my fingers.”

Kang-hyuk exhaled a ragged sob, pressing his forehead to Jaewon’s. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll fix your hand. You’ll operate again, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Jaewon mumbled. Kang-hyuk cupped his cheek, voice thick with emotion. “Then don’t you dare die and make me break them.”

Chapter Text

Operating Room 6—One hour after Bomb Defusal

The OR was sterile. Too sterile. Too cold. Too quiet. And Kang-hyuk couldn’t stop shaking. “Vitals stable. Sedated and prepped.” Jaewon was unconscious on the table. His left hand was mangled, shredded through muscle and bone. Kang-hyuk stood frozen at the sink, gloves on, mask trembling over his breath.

“Professor Baek,” came Chief Han’s voice behind him, firm. “You’re too close to this. I’ll call Ortho—”

“No.” Kang-hyuk turned, voice like iron. His eyes were bloodshot. “You’re not touching him. No one is. I’m doing this.”

“Baek—he’s your student. You’re not objective.” Kang-hyuk stepped forward, fire behind his restraint. “I’ve seen the damage. If you call anyone else, they’ll amputate. They’ll give up before trying. I know how to rebuild nerves. I can do this.”

Chief Han frowned, looking ready to argue again—until Dong-Ju stepped between them, calm but urgent. “Chief, let him try. I’ve seen him operate. There’s no one better.”

Han hesitated. Then gave a sharp nod. “You get one shot, Baek. Don’t screw it up.” 

Kang-hyk nods firmly, "Thank you." he then turns away from his sight and prepares to operate. 

---

Inside the OR

Dong-Ju scrubbed in beside him. “Hyung.” Kang-hyuk’s scalpel hovered over Jaewon’s hand. His breathing was shallow. His fingers trembled. “If I cut wrong—if I even touch the wrong fiber—he’ll lose tactile sensation forever.”

Dong-Ju placed a gloved hand over Kang-hyuk’s wrist, grounding him. “Then don’t cut the wrong fiber. Don't make any mistakes. Jaewon needs you right now.”

Kang-hyuk’s eyes flicked to his, the fear naked there. “He won’t be able to hold a scalpel, Dong-Ju. He won’t be Jaewon anymore.” Dong-Ju’s voice was gentle. “He’ll still be Jaewon. Whether he can operate or not. But if anyone can give him that chance again, it’s you.”

Kang-hyuk exhaled hard. Steadied himself. And began. His hands stopped shaking. He worked in absolute silence. Tendon by tendon. Nerve by nerve. Microsutures, reconstructive grafts, realigning the median nerve sheath.

Two hours passed.

Three.

By the time it was over—Kang-hyuk’s scrubs were soaked in sweat. But Jaewon’s hand? Still intact.

---

ICU Recovery Room—4 Hours after Surgery

The lights were dimmed. Monitors beeped softly. Kang-hyuk sat at Jaewon’s bedside, head bowed, one hand loosely holding Jaewon’s uninjured right hand. He hadn’t moved for hours. He hadn’t even taken his gloves off. The dried blood had soaked through the fabric, cracking around the fingers.

He hadn’t said a word. Until—Jaewon stirred. “…Hyung…?”

Kang-hyuk’s head snapped up. “Jaewon—hey, hey, you’re awake.”

“Did… did we blow up?” Jaewon muttered. A soft, broken laugh slipped from Kang-hyuk’s throat. His voice cracked. “No. You didn’t. Not this time.” Jaewon’s eyes fluttered open, gaze dazed. “My hand…” Kang-hyuk hesitated. Then whispered, “I saved it.”

“…You operated?”

“I had to,” Kang-hyuk murmured. “You’d never let me live it down if someone else butchered it.”

Jaewon gave the faintest smile. “Did you cry?” Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. Suddenly, he does something unexpected, to the point that Jaewon's eyes widened, he was startled by Kang-hyuk's actions. He—Kang-hyuk—just pressed Jaewon’s fingers to his lips and whispered, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Jaewon’s breath hitched softly. “…Okay.” And for once—Just once—Kang-hyuk let himself stay. No beepers. No codes. Just the sound of a heartbeat that hadn’t stopped.

---

FLASHBACK—Operating Room 6, Night of the Bomb

The world narrowed to a hand. To his hand. To Jaewon’s hand. Kang-hyuk stared at the shredded tendons, blood-soaked bone. It was like trying to rebuild someone’s soul with a thread and a needle. He couldn’t breathe. The overhead lights blurred. His gloves felt like they were suffocating him. What if I slip? What if I fail? What if he wakes up and never holds a scalpel again—His hand jerked.

The scalpel grazed the wrong nerve sheath. Alarms didn’t go off. But he knew. He knew. “Shit,” he whispered, frozen in place.

Dong-Ju's voice came soft but firm at his side. “Professor. Look at me.” Kang-hyuk didn’t. “He trusted you,” Dong-Ju continued. “He gave you his hand. Do not betray that.” Kang-hyuk shut his eyes for one breath. Then opened them.

Hands steady. Voice calm. “Microforceps. 7-0 suture. Let’s fix this.”

---

PRESENT—Rehab Center, Two weeks later

The rehab therapist spoke slowly, patiently. “Let’s try again. Grip this. Hold. And release.” Jaewon’s hand barely moved. The tremor started in his fingers and ran all the way to his chest. His breathing quickened. Sweat beaded on his temple. The soft click of a medical timer sounded behind him—and suddenly, Jaewon was back in the OR.

The countdown. The heat.

The gun barrel.

The red numbers.

He flinched violently. His chair scraped backward. The therapy ball dropped. “I—I can’t—” he gasped. Jang-Mi rushed in from the hallway. “Jaewon. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re in rehab.” His head dropped into his good hand. He couldn’t stop shaking. “…I heard the ticking again,” he whispered. “Even though it’s gone.”

Behind the observation room, Kang-hyuk couldn't bear to step inside, He wanted to. God, he ached to. But every time he saw Jaewon flinch, saw his hand twitch like it didn’t belong to him, something inside Kang-hyuk cracked all over again.

He clenched his fists. He’d saved his hand. But not his peace. And the case wasn’t over. The ITHACA files were still scattered. Disappearing. Witnesses silenced. A nurse who assisted surgery two nights ago—found dead. An old lab tech from the facility—missing. And someone out there still wanted Jaewon dead.

Kang-hyuk’s phone buzzed. UNKNOWN NUMBER: “He wasn’t supposed to survive.”

He looked through the glass again. Jaewon’s hand trembled in Jang-Mi’s.

Kang-hyuk’s jaw clenched. “You came for the wrong person.”

---

Hospital Rooftop— 2:47 AM, Three weeks Post-Op

The night air was cool, whispering through the small rooftop garden above the Trauma Center. Wind stirred the leaves. A bench sat in the corner beneath a crooked lamp. Jaewon sat there in sweatpants and a hoodie two sizes too big—Kang-hyuk’s, actually. He didn’t remember asking. Just wore it one day, and no one said anything.

His left hand was bandaged and resting on his lap. Still stiff. Still sore. But tonight, he’d managed to walk up here on his own. And for once… no alarms. No guns. No blood. Just… quiet.

Footsteps echoed. He didn’t need to turn around. “Professor.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer at first. Just sat beside him, a takeout coffee cup in each hand. He passed one silently. “I added two sugars. I know you won’t say thank you, so just drink it.”

Jaewon huffed a quiet laugh. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. City lights glittered far below. Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance wailed—but it felt far away. Out of reach.

“…The hand’s healing,” Jaewon said softly. Kang-hyuk turned to him, eyes catching the moonlight. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “I think… I might be able to hold a pen again next week.”

Kang-hyuk said nothing. Then, “Good.”

Another pause. Jaewon took a breath. “I… still hear the countdown sometimes. When it’s quiet. My body still reacts like it’s going to go off. Like I’m still in that OR.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t move. But his coffee cup trembled slightly. “I know,” he said, voice low. “Me too.” Jaewon blinked, surprised. Kang-hyuk was staring straight ahead. “I see you holding your hand out. I see your eyes. I hear the beeping. Sometimes I wake up thinking it’s still happening.”

A long silence fell between them. Then Kang-hyuk said, barely above a whisper, “But you held it together. Even with your hand bleeding. Even with the gun. You never let go.” Jaewon looked away quickly, blinking hard. Kang-hyuk glanced at him, then down at Jaewon’s hand resting on his lap—gentle, careful. Without thinking, he reached out. His fingers hovered over the bandages, then settled softly on Jaewon’s wrist.

Warm. Steady. Jaewon didn’t pull away. “You saved the whole damn hospital,” Kang-hyuk murmured. “And you still worry if you’re enough.” Jaewon swallowed. “I was scared.”

“I know.”

Silence again. But it felt different this time. Heavier. Closer. Jaewon finally turned, eyes meeting Kang-hyuk’s in the dim light. His voice was soft, uncertain. “Does it scare you too…? That everything changed?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. Instead, he just gently tightened his hold on Jaewon’s wrist, grounding him. “Only when I think about what would’ve happened if I lost you.” And for a second—just a second—Jaewon looked like he might shatter. But he didn’t. He leaned his head on Kang-hyuk’s shoulder. And Kang-hyuk let him stay there, his hand never letting go.

---

Trauma Center—Main Lobby

It's been weeks since the accident, but the name Project ITHACA still lingers. The whole hospital hasn't quite recovered from the serious events, even though all the patients from the explosion had been discharged, the doctor who worked on this case was still haunted by it. Especially Jaewon. Over the weeks of rehab, he has finally gained motoric sense in his hands, and has slowly start to practice himself to operate again. Dong-Ju has been helping out once in a while, but in a few more weeks, Jaewon will be able to operate by himself again. 

The hospital was beginning to stir with the soft shuffle of early rounds and distant chatter. Jaewon was still asleep upstairs—finally resting after days of insomnia. Kang-hyuk was reviewing scans near the nurse’s station when he heard someone say his name. But it wasn’t Jaewon. Or Jang-Mi. Or even Chief Han.

It was a voice from another world. A voice he hadn’t heard in years. “Lieutenant Baek.” Kang-hyuk’s spine stiffened. He turned slowly. A man stood just inside the entrance, in civilian clothes—but nothing about him looked civilian. Broad shoulders. Scar on his jaw. A barely concealed shoulder holster under his coat.

Major Ryu Jin-seok. Black Wings. Alive. And very much here. “Long time,” Jin-seok said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “You still look like someone punched you out of sleep.”

Kang-hyuk narrowed his eyes. “You’re supposed to be stationed in Germany.” Jin-seok stepped closer. “They pulled me back. Because of this.” He reached into his jacket and slid a sealed file into Kang-hyuk’s hands. The stamp on it was unmistakable.

ITHACA – Classified: Black Wing Eyes Only

Kang-hyuk’s jaw tensed. “This is over. It's been weeks since the facility blew up. Weeks since the accident happened here...”

“No. It’s not.” Jin-seok dropped his voice. “Someone is resurrecting the project. Different funding stream. Different front. But the same core. The same goal.”

Kang-hyuk flipped through the file—photos of destroyed evidence, missing lab workers, and… His stomach dropped. One blurry surveillance image showed Jaewon at the OR. Circle drawn around him. Marked: Targeted Survivor. “You came to warn me?”

“I came to bring you back,” Jin-seok said, serious now. “The task force is being reactivated. We need you. Just for this op. Get in, shut it down, and make sure none of this ever touches civilian ground again.”

Kang-hyuk looked up sharply. “It already has.” Kang-hyuk starts reading the file, he then reaches to last page: Project ITHACA – PHASE II: Re-initiation Imminent. Target 01: Baek Kang-hyuk. Target 02: Yang Jaewon.

Jin-seok’s voice was grim. “This time, they don’t want survivors.” Kang-hyuk snapped the file shut. “Then we don’t give them a chance.”

---

Conference Room—4:00 PM

The blinds were drawn tight. The air in the small hospital conference room was heavy, sterile, and far too quiet for something not related to an emergency procedure. Jin-seok stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes scanning each face. Kang-hyuk leaned against the wall behind him, silent, brooding. He hadn't said much since gathering them all.

Jang-Mi sat with her arms folded tightly, eyes narrowed. Gyeong-Won looked like he wanted to ask a dozen questions, and Dong-Ju… Dong-Ju looked furious just being in the room.

“You’re telling me this bomb incident wasn’t just terrorism?” Dong-Ju asked, brows furrowed.

“No,” Jin-seok said flatly. “It was a clean-up job. Someone was trying to erase what was left of a military R&D program. Codename: Project ITHACA.”

Jang-Mi’s lips parted in disbelief. “Jaewon almost died. That explosion… the countdown… it was all a cover-up?” Kang-hyuk looked down. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Yes,” Jin-seok answered. “And it’s not over. Someone restarted ITHACA from the shadows. We believe they're targeting people with any connection to the previous experiments.”

Gyeong-Won frowned. “You mean Kang-hyuk and Jaewon?”

“And more. Anyone who stood too close.” Jin-seok tossed a photo onto the table—grainy, a former trauma center technician. “Found dead two nights ago in Busan. Torture marks. Files missing.” Jang-Mi swallowed thickly. “So what now?” Dong-Ju asked sharply. “What do you want from us?”

Jin-seok turned slightly, gaze locking on Kang-hyuk. “I want him. One last mission. We track the source, take down the facility, and destroy whatever’s left. Clean, fast, surgical.”

The silence stretched. Kang-hyuk didn’t move. “He’s a doctor now,” Jang-Mi snapped, voice shaking with anger. “He saves lives. He isn’t your weapon anymore.” Jin-seok’s jaw ticked. “I know what he is. But you don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

Gyeong-Won looked between the two men. “Does Jaewon know?” Kang-hyuk’s head snapped up. “No.” Everyone turned to him. “I haven’t told him,” Kang-hyuk said stiffly. “I will. Just… not yet.”

“Why not?” Jang-Mi demanded. “He deserves to know the truth.”

“Because he’s barely breathing as it is,” Kang-hyuk snapped back. “He can’t even sleep through the night without flinching. You think I’m going to dump this on him now?”

The room went quiet. Jin-seok took a step forward. “I understand. But this isn’t a request. The order’s been given. You either help us end this… or more people will die. And next time, we won’t be lucky enough to walk away.” Kang-hyuk clenched his fists. “I left the Black Wings for a reason,” he said quietly. “I’m not that man anymore.”

“You don’t get to decide when the past stops chasing you,” Jin-seok replied. And that’s when Kang-hyuk whispered, almost too soft for anyone to hear, “I’m scared that if I go back… I’ll lose him.”

No one said anything. Jin-seok’s face softened for a brief moment—but only a moment. “You have 48 hours. After that, we move with or without you.”

---

Hospital Rooftop

It was late. The sky above Seoul was a haze of pale stars and city light. The wind was cold, brushing against Jaewon’s cheeks like a warning. Kang-hyuk was standing by the railing again—the same spot he always went to when he needed to disappear without leaving. Jaewon stepped out from the stairwell, arms crossed against the breeze. “You’re doing that thing again.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t turn around. “What thing?”

“You disappear. You pretend you’re busy. You avoid me,” Jaewon said, walking closer, stopping a few feet behind him. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” Kang-hyuk exhaled, barely shaking his head. “You need to rest.”

“I am resting,” Jaewon said, sharper than he meant to. “And I know something’s wrong.” He paused, waited. No answer. “Hyung.”

Silence. “Don’t do this to me.” At that, Kang-hyuk finally turned. His face was tired—older somehow. Eyes shadowed not just by exhaustion, but by fear. “Not now. I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I do, you’ll walk right into the fire with me,” Kang-hyuk said, voice cracking. Jaewon’s breath caught. “You don’t trust me?”

“I do,” Kang-hyuk said. “That’s the problem.”

They stared at each other in the half-dark, the silence between them taut with things unsaid. Jaewon finally left, leaving Kang-hyuk alone with the cold breeze. He knew he'd leave. He knew Jaewon didn't like to be left in the dark, yet he had no choice but to do so. He needs to protect Jaewon. He can't let anything else happen to him. Not when he barely made it through while seeing him vulnerable. 

The door swung shut with a soft click behind Jaewon. Kang-hyuk stayed there, frozen in place by the railing, staring out at the blur of city lights like they might offer answers he didn’t have. A few minutes passed before he heard the door open again. Jang-Mi stepped onto the rooftop, her arms folded against the wind. She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked up beside him, keeping her distance, eyes scanning the same skyline.

“He came to me earlier,” she said after a long silence, her voice low but firm.  Kang-hyuk didn’t move. “He said you’ve been slipping away.” He let out a breath, heavy with guilt. “I’m trying to protect him.” Jang-Mi looked at him. “And how’s that going for you?” He gave a bitter laugh, eyes glistening. “It’s not. It’s... It’s tearing me apart.”

She stepped closer, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. “He already died once in front of you, didn’t he?” Kang-hyuk’s jaw clenched. His shoulders tensed, like he was holding back something too painful to speak. “And now you’re scared he’ll do it again,” she continued, quieter now. “But this time, it’ll be for you. Because he cares.”

He turned away, blinking rapidly. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “I’m not ready to lose him.”

“You won’t,” Jang-Mi said softly. "Look, I know you care about him, maybe even deeper. I know the two of you more than you two know yourselves. You guys are just so blind at this point." she lets out a soft sigh. “But if you keep pushing him out… keeping secrets… You will lose him. Not to death. But to silence.” 

He didn’t answer. He only nodded slowly, as the wind wrapped around them both, colder now. Jang-Mi didn’t push further. She just stayed beside him, steady and quiet, the warmth of her presence the only thing grounding him in that moment.

Little did they know, Jaewon never left... he heard everything. The door hadn't closed all the way, Jaewon hadn’t meant to stay. But as soon as he heard his name, he froze—one hand still on the doorknob, heart pounding, breath caught. “I’m not ready to lose him,” Kang-hyuk had said.

Jang-Mi’s voice, calm but steady, followed. “You won’t. Unless you walk away without telling him.” Then silence… before Kang-hyuk spoke again. “Jinseok’s expecting my answer tonight.”

Jaewon’s breath hitched. “You’re really going back?” Jang-Mi asked softly. “Just until it’s over,” Kang-hyuk murmured. “If I can help bury Project ITHACA for good, maybe this time… no one else gets hurt. Not him.” Jaewon felt something shatter inside him. Slowly, he stepped back, letting the door close quietly behind him. No footsteps, no sound. Just the weight of truth pressing down on his chest like a vice.

---

It's the final day, the day Kang-hyuk has to make a decision. The trauma team had gathered in the on-call lounge. Jin-seok was there too, going over logistics, eyes grim. Gyeong-Won leaned on the counter, Dong-Ju fiddled with a pen, and Jang-Mi stood silently near the door. The air was heavy. No one noticed the door swing open—until Jaewon walked in. His scrubs were still on, stained with long shifts and little sleep, but his eyes… they burned.

“You’re going back to Black Wings?”

Silence.

Kang-hyuk turned, startled. “Jaewon—”

“You were going to leave without telling me?” Jinseok stepped in, voice calm. “This is classified—”

“I held a bomb with my bare hands!” Jaewon shouted. “I bled for this case. Don’t talk to me about classified.” Kang-hyuk’s voice was strained. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“No, it never is,” Jaewon snapped, his voice cracking. “But every single time something happens, you pull away. You keep secrets, you vanish into your guilt, and I’m left standing in the dark!”

The room was dead quiet. Dong-Ju looked away. Gyeong-Won clenched his jaw. Jang-Mi—her eyes were wet.

“I trusted you,” Jaewon whispered. “I trusted you.” Kang-hyuk stepped forward, helpless. “I was trying to protect you—”

“Then maybe you should’ve let me decide if I wanted to be protected!” The words hit like a slap. Kang-hyuk froze. And in that moment, Jaewon looked at him like a stranger. “You go,” Jaewon said, voice steady now. “Go finish your war. But don’t come back pretending nothing happened.” He turned on his heel and walked out, the door slamming behind him.

Jin-seok didn’t say a word. No one did. And Kang-hyuk… he just stood there, wrecked, like he’d just lost everything he was fighting to protect.

---

Classified Strike Zone—Black Wings Operation Base—11 days later

The air reeked of scorched metal and gunpowder. Thunder rolled in the distance, but the storm was already here—underneath the surface, buried in the bones of the Earth, within the remains of a facility that should’ve never existed. This was where ITHACA was born. And where it was supposed to die. Kang-hyuk crouched behind a cracked pillar, chest heaving. His body was screaming—shrapnel still embedded in his shoulder from an earlier blast, a graze wound across his thigh, bruises blooming across his ribs. But pain didn’t register anymore. It hadn’t in days.

"Team A—push left flank!" "Sector B is clear—no movement!" "We breach in sixty. Kang-hyuk, eyes up. This isn’t over." Jin-seok’s voice crackled in Kang-hyuk’s ear, curt and low.

Kang-hyuk wiped the blood from his goggles, eyes narrowing as he looked ahead. The corridor in front of them was warped from the explosion three days ago—walls blackened, pipes hanging like fractured veins. They were deep in now. No way back.

“What’s the target?” Kang-hyuk asked, keeping his rifle close.

“Room 7-F. Intel says it was a control node. Monitoring experiments. Surveillance logs. Possible live subjects.” Live subjects. Kang-hyuk swallowed hard. The implication was clear. They weren’t just after data anymore. They were after proof. People. “Copy.” The team moved. Low, precise. Shadows bleeding into walls. Jin-seok raised a fist—halt.

A mechanical whine echoed down the hall, followed by soft static… and voices. Crying? No. Screaming. They breached. The door burst open with a charge, smoke flooding the corridor. Inside—hell. Cages. Some shattered. Others intact. Medical tables with restraints. Blood. So much blood. Bodies—some human, some barely recognizable. Some still breathing.

Kang-hyuk stepped forward, trembling. A figure moved in the corner—shaking, whispering, incoherent. “Help…”

He dropped his rifle and moved fast, kneeling beside the survivor. Young. No older than 19. Eyes wide with terror, arms restrained by synthetic cuffs. “It’s okay,” Kang-hyuk said hoarsely. “You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

But even as he spoke, the boy’s eyes widened—panic overtaking relief. “N-No… trap… It’s a—”

Kang-hyuk’s heart dropped. “GET DOWN—!”

The explosion came from behind them. A second blast triggered near the west wall—force ripping through the command terminal as the room ignited. Screams. Dust. Metal raining down. Jin-seok tackled a soldier, dragging them behind a gurney. Another team member went down—gut wound, screaming. Kang-hyuk was thrown hard against the floor, his head slamming into the debris. For a moment, everything went silent. Just the slow ring in his ears and the sharp taste of blood.

He tried to get up—his right arm refused. The boy—he was gone. Either taken by the blast or swallowed by smoke.

“We’ve got wounded!” Jin-seok barked. “Kang-hyuk, status!” Kang-hyuk coughed, dragging himself upright with his left hand. “Alive,” he rasped. “Barely.”

“We need the drives. Go!” His vision swam, but he pushed through. Crawling through flame and wreckage, he reached the half-melted server rack. Sparks danced around his fingertips as he tore into it with what little strength he had. The files—they weren’t entirely lost. Fragments. Video logs. Field reports. And one name—bold, clear, unredacted.

Project ITHACA - Phase 04: Yang Jaewon, MD.

The room tilted. His lungs seized. His blood went cold. “Jin-seok,” he breathed. “They kept logs on Jaewon. He was part of the Phase 04 testing site. They knew who he was.”

“What?!” Jin-seok’s voice cracked across the comms. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. They marked him as ‘Subject Contact Clearance Level 3.’ They were monitoring him even before the explosion.”

Before everything. Before the Trauma Center. Before Kang-hyuk ever got close. Before he ever fell for him. The truth settled in his stomach like lead—but there was no time to process it. “Status!” came another voice through comms. “New signal inbound—hostiles closing fast! We need evac!”

Kang-hyuk grabbed what he could—USB drives, corrupted tapes, field files. He limped toward the corridor as the sound of boots echoed from behind. “Kang-hyuk!” Jin-seok called. Then gunfire. Everything dissolved into motion again—gunfire blinding, smoke choking. Another explosion hit. Kang-hyuk’s back slammed against a broken console, metal piercing his vest.

He saw red. And then—Darkness.

---

Rain lashed against the windows of the trauma center, drowning the halls in a low hum of static noise. It had been thirteen days since Kang-hyuk left with Jinseok—no goodbyes, no real explanation, just an order disguised as a quiet retreat into the shadows. Jaewon hadn’t said anything. Not to Jang-Mi. Not to Dong-Ju. Not even when he overheard it all—Kang-hyuk’s decision to rejoin Black Wings, the mission, the lies he planned to say when he came back.

And still, Jaewon waited. He told himself he was fine. He buried himself in post-op charts, surgeries, long rounds. He didn’t ask. He didn’t reach out.

But every time the ER doors opened, his head would snap up. Every time a helicopter passed overhead, his chest would clench. Because Kang-hyuk wasn’t back. And no one had heard a word since the mission started. Until now.

The door to the lounge slammed open.

Jang-Mi burst in, soaked from the rain, her breath ragged. “Chief Han needs us. Now.”

Everyone froze. Gyeong-Won lowered his tablet. Dong-Ju looked up from his seat. Jaewon sat by the corner, unmoving, his face unreadable.

“What happened?” Dong-Ju asked, already standing. Jang-Mi’s voice shook. “They found Kang-hyuk.”

Jaewon blinked once. Slowly. “Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” she said. “But he’s badly injured. They’ve stabilized him at a military triage base. The Black Wings want a trauma team on-site.”

“How bad?” Gyeong-Won asked tightly. A pause. “Chest trauma. Internal bleeding. Shrapnel injuries. They don’t trust anyone but us.”

The silence that followed was a scream in itself. Chief Han appeared in the doorway, rain dripping off his coat. “We leave in fifteen. Pack what you need. You’ll be flown out under escort.” Everyone moved at once—grabbing bags, gloves, sterile kits. Urgency kicked in. Everyone but Jaewon. He stood where he was, staring down at his own hands as if seeing them for the first time.

His voice was barely audible. “He promised he’d come back.”

Jang-Mi turned to him, heart breaking. “He still might.”

“Then why does it feel like he already left?” No one answered. Because maybe... he did. And now, Jaewon had to face the wreckage left behind.

---

Military Triage Facility—Forward Operating Base—6 Hours Post-Extraction

The rain hadn’t stopped since the mission ended. It pattered endlessly against the canvas of the triage tent like ticking time, cold and merciless. Inside, the air was thick with antiseptic, blood, and the tension of urgency as overworked field medics hovered over Kang-hyuk’s broken form.

He lay flat on a triage cot, unmoving except for the occasional twitch of pain that shot through his bloodied limbs. His abdomen had been torn open by shrapnel—muscle, skin, and nerves peeled away beneath a makeshift pressure bandage, hastily packed with gauze. His right leg was fractured in three places. His shoulder was mangled, the bullet having gone straight through. And still—

He was awake. Barely.

A medic knelt beside him, face pale beneath the sterile lights. “Sir, we need to sedate you. You’ve lost over two liters. If we don’t stabilize the bleeding now—”

“No,” Kang-hyuk croaked. His lips were dry, cracked. “Not… here…” His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper, but it was commanding. He might have been on the edge of unconsciousness, but the iron in his tone remained. “Not you. Not them.”

“Sir, you’re actively hemorrhaging,” the medic said, panic rising. “You won’t make it to Seoul if we don’t do something now.”

Kang-hyuk’s hand shot up—clumsy, trembling—but gripped the medic’s wrist hard enough to make the young man flinch. His eyes locked with the medic’s, dark and burning. “Get me my team,” he said through clenched teeth. “Jaewon. Jang-Mi. Gyeong-Won. Dong-Ju. They’re the only ones.”

The medic turned, helpless, toward Jin-seok—who stood several feet away, arms crossed tightly, face unreadable.

Jinseok looked at Kang-hyuk for a long moment. Saw the gray in his skin, the tremble in his hands. But more than anything, he saw the fire. The same fire from every mission—the one that made him impossible to kill.

“Stabilize him,” Jin-seok ordered. “But don’t cut him. Don’t open him up. Give him that much.”

“Sir, he’ll die.”

“Then he’ll die on his terms.”

The tent fell into tense, mechanical motion. IVs inserted. Morphine refused—by Kang-hyuk himself. Blood bags hung, dripping red life back into his system. But it wasn’t enough. His blood pressure kept dropping. His lips started to pale. Still, he refused.

When a nurse tried to remove the bandage over his abdomen to properly assess the wound, Kang-hyuk grabbed their wrist and snarled, “Don’t touch it. Tape it. Seal it. But don’t open it.”

The nurse froze, eyes wide. “Sir, we need to—”

“I said no.” His voice cracked. Not from weakness—but restraint. He was holding it all in. Holding it all together. Because if he let go now—he wouldn’t wake up again.

Jin-seok moved closer. “Why?” he asked quietly. “Why not let them treat you here?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t respond right away. His fingers trembled as they clutched the edge of the cot, knuckles white, nails digging into fabric. Then, a whisper, “I don’t want Jaewon to see me like this.”

Jin-seok exhaled slowly. “Too late for that, isn’t it?”

Kang-hyuk shut his eyes, jaw clenched. “He’s probably on his way right now. Frantic—worried about your condition. And god forbid, that kid cares about you. I don't see that kid leaving you anytime soon.”

“I left,” Kang-hyuk rasped, voice crumbling. “I walked away... before he could.” His breath hitched as another wave of pain rippled through him. His body arched off the cot briefly, blood seeping faster.

The monitors beeped wildly. “Sir, BP is crashing—he’s tanking—!”

“Don’t let him flatline!”

But Kang-hyuk’s hand shot up weakly—trying to rip the oxygen mask off. “No mask… I want to see them… when they come.”

Jin-seok had to reach out and press his hand back down. “Then hold on, soldier.”

And he did. With everything he had left. In his mind—fractured and fogged—flashed only one image. Not war. Not the mission. Not the explosion. Just a hospital hallway. Warm light. Footsteps echoing softly. And Jaewon—walking toward him with that infuriating, perfect calm. That steadiness. That faith.

Kang-hyuk’s chest shuddered. Not yet, he thought. Not before I see him again.

---

Emergency Medical Base—Edge of the Strike Zone

It was chaos when the medevac chopper landed.

Dust blew into the air like smoke from a fire that refused to die. The mountains in the distance were silhouettes of wreckage and war, scarred by the fallout of Project ITHACA’s final purge. The red sun was gone, leaving behind only ash-hued dusk and blood-painted skies. Makeshift tents flapped in the dry wind, anchored among broken vehicles and stained soil. This wasn’t a hospital—it was a battlefield wearing a bandage.

And somewhere at its center, the man they came for—Kang-hyuk—was barely clinging to life.

“MOVE!” medics shouted over the engine roar. “Get the trauma team inside! We need them NOW!”

The moment the truck skidded to a halt, Jaewon leapt out first—coat half-off, hands already gloved, heart in his throat. Gyeong-Won, Dong-Ju, and Jang-Mi followed, but Jaewon didn’t hear them. The wind howled around him, but it couldn’t drown out the sound of panic building in his chest. It was happening all over again. Just like that night. Just like before.

He burst into the tent—and stopped.

Kang-hyuk was barely recognizable.

He lay on a cot soaked through with blood, his uniform slashed open, his skin painted in burns and soot. His left leg was twisted unnaturally, shrapnel sticking out like metal thorns. His right shoulder was torn open, bones visible beneath congealed blood. His chest rose and fell in jagged, rasping breaths.

And his eyes—bloodshot, glazed—barely flicked open. “Jaewon…?” he rasped, lips cracked, voice nearly drowned by the machines beeping frantically beside him.

Jaewon’s heart nearly stopped. “I’m here,” he whispered, stepping closer with trembling hands. “I’m here, Hyung. I’ve got you.”

“Vitals dropping!” one of the medics yelled. “BP’s crashing—he’s going into hypovolemic shock!”

Another medic tried to push in with tools. Jaewon snapped. “DON’T TOUCH HIM!” he roared, his voice echoing through the tent.

Everyone froze.

“He’s our patient now!” Jaewon barked. “Step away! Gyeon-Won—prep for thoracotomy! Jang-Mi, suction! Dong-Ju, I want blood ready and vasopressors in him in ten seconds or less!”

The other medic hesitated. “Doctor, he needs surgery in a proper—”

“He’s not going to make it to a proper OR!” Jaewon shouted. “We’re doing this NOW!”

The tent crackled with urgency as the trauma team surged into motion. Jang-Mi passed the scalpel with shaking hands. Gyeong-Won and Dong-Ju set up monitors, moving faster than they ever had before.

Kang-hyuk tried to speak again. “Wait… Jaewon…”

Jaewon leaned closer. “Save your strength. You don’t need to say anything—”

“I…” Kang-hyuk’s breath hitched. His pupils dilated. “I came back… didn’t… lie… this time…” His voice broke off into a gurgle. Blood started bubbling from the corner of his mouth.

“Get a suction in here!” Jaewon yelled, panic rising in his throat. “We’re losing him!”

“Jaewon!” Jang-Mi said sharply, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We need to cut.”

His hands were shaking. But he grabbed the scalpel anyway. “10 blade,” he muttered. “I’m going in.”

He made the incision clean and fast—but as soon as he opened the thoracic cavity, the bleeding worsened. Arterial spray hit his glove.

“Shit—his pulmonary artery’s torn—clamp, NOW!” Dong-Ju passed it. Jaewon reached in with blood-slick fingers, trying not to slip. Kang-hyuk jolted beneath him.

“Give me direct pressure!” he yelled. Jaewon could barely see through the tears in his eyes. But he kept moving. Clamped. Sutured. Clamped again. He was operating on instinct—because the man on this table wasn’t just another soldier. He was his mentor. His anchor. His…

“Stay with me,” Jaewon whispered through clenched teeth. “You can’t leave. Not like this. Not again.”

He could feel it. Kang-hyuk was slipping.

But just before he passed out, Kang-hyuk moved his bloodied hand—reaching weakly for Jaewon’s sleeve.

“I’m… glad,” he whispered, barely audible over the heart monitor’s warning tones.

“Glad?” Jaewon leaned in, frantic. “Hyung—what do you mean—what are you glad about—?”

But Kang-hyuk didn’t finish. His eyes fluttered closed. His arm dropped. The machine flatlined for a half-second before Dongju slammed a syringe into the IV line.

“PUSHING EPI!”

“Clear!”

Jaewon didn’t breathe as they shocked him. Once. Twice. Then finally—beep-beep-beep—the rhythm returned. Weak. But there.

“He’s alive,” Gyeongwon said breathlessly. “He’s holding.” Jaewon collapsed onto the side of the cot, blood on his cheeks, in his hair, on his gloves. His whole body shook. “He’s alive,” he repeated. And then again, barely above a whisper. “He’s alive…” He didn’t know how long he had sat there.

He only knew that every part of him was still reaching for that voice—that promise—that moment when Kang-hyuk looked at him and said he came back. And this time, he hadn’t lied.

Post-Op Recovery Tent—Hours After Surgery

The night had deepened into something heavy, suffocating. Silence had settled over the tent like dust on the battlefield—unnatural, sterile, and far too still.

Kang-hyuk lay unmoving on the recovery cot, his chest rising in fragile, uneven intervals. He was bandaged from shoulder to thigh, tubes running from every direction, a ventilator clicking rhythmically at his side. The bloodstains hadn’t been fully scrubbed away from his skin—no time for that. Just enough to stabilize him. And right beside him, slumped in a chair he hadn’t moved from in hours, was Jaewon.

He hadn’t spoken since the last suture. Not even when Dong-Ju offered him water. Not when Jang-Mi rested a trembling hand on his shoulder. Not when Gyeong-Won tried to get him to take a break. He just sat there, gloved hands clasped in front of his mouth, eyes never leaving Kang-hyuk’s face.

They’d nearly lost him. Hell, they still might.

“His vitals are holding,” Jang-Mi said gently, returning from the monitor. Her voice was low, like a whisper meant for a funeral. “But he’s not out of danger yet.”

Jaewon nodded. Just barely. Jang-Mi glanced once more at Kang-hyuk—then at Jaewon—and slipped out of the tent without another word.

The others followed. They knew he needed this moment. So it was just the two of them now.

Jaewon reached out, fingers brushing over the back of Kang-hyuk’s limp hand. His gloves had dried blood on them still—some from the battlefield, some from surgery, some from the man lying in front of him.

He exhaled shakily. “You stubborn bastard,” he said hoarsely. “You really couldn’t stay away, could you?” No answer. Just the hiss of the ventilator. Jaewon blinked hard, jaw clenched. He swallowed back the sob threatening to claw up his throat.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” he whispered. “You just left. And I knew. I knew, the second I heard you were gone, that you’d do something like this.” He rubbed at his face with shaking hands. “I should hate you for it,” he said. “But I don’t. I can’t. Because I know you… And I know why you went.”

His voice cracked. “I just wish you’d told me. That you’d trusted me enough to carry the weight with you.” He leaned forward, resting his head against Kang-hyuk’s arm. His body trembled, shoulders curling inward. “I can’t do this again,” he whispered, breath catching. “I can’t lose you again.”

The machine beeped steadily beside him. A cruel reminder that Kang-hyuk was alive—but barely. Here—but not really.

“Come back,” Jaewon pleaded softly, eyes squeezed shut. “Come back to me. That’s all I’m asking.” A breeze shifted the tent flap. Somewhere outside, helicopters whirred and dogs barked in the dark. But inside, everything stayed still. And Jaewon stayed right there, holding onto a hand that wouldn’t hold back.

---

Recovery Tent—Dawn

The faintest light crept over the horizon, soft and cold, bleeding into the edges of the war-scarred field. Morning in the strike zone didn’t feel like a beginning—just a continuation of fatigue, of wounds not yet healed. The field tent was still. Too still.

Jaewon hadn’t moved. He hadn’t slept.

He sat slouched beside Kang-hyuk’s cot, his head resting against the mattress, one hand still clutching Kang-hyuk’s. His coat had fallen off hours ago, his scrubs stained, wrinkled, and stiff with dried blood. An IV hung behind Kang-hyuk’s shoulder, drip by precious drip.

The ventilator still breathed for him. The monitors still hummed. But then—A twitch. Just a flicker of muscle at Kang-hyuk’s fingers. Then another. And then—A rasp. Barely audible. Dry and broken. “...water...”

Jaewon’s eyes snapped open. His entire body jerked upright. “Hyung?” he breathed, too afraid it was a hallucination. Kang-hyuk’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, but unmistakably alive. His lips moved again. “...hurts.”

Jaewon let out a choked sound—half laugh, half sob—and scrambled for the water cup on the tray. His hands trembled as he lifted Kang-hyuk’s head just enough to help him drink. It wasn’t much. Just a few sips. But it was real.

“You idiot,” Jaewon whispered, voice cracking. “You reckless, self-sacrificing idiot—”

But he was smiling. God, he was smiling through tears he hadn’t allowed himself to cry for days. Kang-hyuk coughed weakly, his hand trying to grip Jaewon’s. “I made it back,” he said, hoarse and barely audible. Jaewon nodded rapidly, wiping at his face, gripping that hand like a lifeline.

“You did. You did, Hyung. Barely. But you did.” Kang-hyuk blinked slowly, eyes finally settling on him. “…you’re crying.”

“No, I’m not,” Jaewon muttered.

“You are.” Jaewon gave a breathless laugh, full of exhaustion and disbelief. “Shut up and go back to sleep.” But Kang-hyuk didn’t. Not yet. He kept looking at Jaewon. Something raw and unspoken in his gaze. Something that had been buried for too long.

“I heard you,” he said softly. “When you told me to stay. I wanted to.” Jaewon’s shoulders trembled. “You better have,” he whispered, gripping his hand tighter. “Because if you’d died—if you dared to die—” He couldn’t finish. The words broke off, swallowed by emotion he could no longer hold in.

“I’m sorry,” Kang-hyuk murmured.

“For what?”

“For not telling you. For leaving. For… everything.” Jaewon shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Just... don’t ever do it again.” Kang-hyuk gave the faintest smile. “I’m not going anywhere.” And finally, finally—Jaewon let his forehead rest against Kang-hyuk’s hand, breath uneven, tears silent but unstoppable. It wasn’t a breakdown. It wasn’t weakness. It was release. After days of holding it together. After sleepless hours of cutting through torn flesh and bone, begging the universe not to take the man lying before him.

And now he was here. Alive. Barely, but alive.

Jang-Mi peeked into the tent then, and the sight stopped her cold. Her breath hitched. She motioned for Dong-Ju and Gyeong-Won. The trauma team entered silently, slowly—staring in disbelief at the sight of Kang-hyuk, awake, Jaewon holding onto him like a lifeline.

No one said a word. They didn’t need to. Relief bloomed in the silence like a wound that had finally stopped bleeding. And the sun rose, dim and pale, but present. So was he. So were they. Still standing. Still breathing. Still here.

Chapter Text

Recovery Tent

It was quiet now. The chaos of the day had ebbed. Outside, the medical base had thinned to a lull—just the low murmur of soldiers on rounds, the distant clinking of equipment, the gentle hush of wind rustling the canvas walls.

Inside the tent, Jaewon sat at Kang-hyuk’s bedside, a blanket tossed messily over his shoulders. His eyes were rimmed in fatigue, hair a mess, but he hadn't left—not even for a second. He sat close, hands loosely clasped in his lap, gaze fixed on Kang-hyuk like he was still afraid to blink.

Kang-hyuk was propped up slightly now, bandaged heavily but more lucid. His breaths came easier, color returning slowly to his cheeks.

But Jaewon hadn’t smiled. Not fully. He looked down, voice barely a whisper. “You were going to say something,” he said. “Before you passed out that day.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t look at him either. Just stared ahead, eyes dimming slightly. “I was barely conscious,” he murmured. “I don’t remember.”

“Bullshit,” Jaewon said, too tired to sugarcoat it. Kang-hyuk’s jaw flexed. “I need to know,” Jaewon pressed, softer now. “You were trying to say something. I heard it in your voice.”

Kang-hyuk was silent for a long time. Then—quietly, eyes still fixed on the tent wall—“It wasn’t the right time.”

“Because you thought you were dying?”

“Because I didn’t want it to be the last thing you heard.”

Jaewon frowned, wounded by the honesty of it. “So you’d rather say nothing?” Kang-hyuk looked at him finally. Eyes bloodshot, pained, but steady. “I’d rather live long enough to say it when it matters.”

Jaewon didn’t know what to do with that. He opened his mouth—closed it. The silence between them stretched, too heavy, too loud. And in the end, he simply nodded, swallowing the storm. He stood. Kang-hyuk’s gaze followed him, briefly alarmed—until Jaewon grabbed a clean towel and gently dabbed the sweat off Kang-hyuk’s brow, wordless. He moved around the tent, checking IVs, adjusting Kang-hyuk’s monitor, almost like routine.

Like he needed the motion to keep himself grounded. Eventually, he drifted back to the bed and—without quite realizing it—he sat down again at the edge, hand still resting lightly on Kang-hyuk’s blanket.

And then…he fell asleep. Slumped forward, cheek pressed gently to the mattress, one hand curled into the sheets. His breathing steadied. His lashes fluttered against skin.

Kang-hyuk watched him. Quiet. Still. He didn’t say anything. But he shifted—barely—and turned his hand just enough so that his fingers brushed against Jaewon’s. He didn’t want to wake him. God, no. Jaewon had fought harder than anyone to keep him alive. He deserved the rest more than anyone.

And that was the moment when the canvas flap rustled.

A shadow moved just beyond it. Then another.

“Psst—ow, move—he’s awake, right?”

“Shhh! He’ll hear you.”

“Is he drooling? Oh my God, I think he’s drooling.”

Three heads poked in, unevenly stacked like bad surveillance footage. Jang-Mi on top, Gyeong-Won below her, and Dong-Ju squished at the bottom—barely holding in their laughter.

Then Kang-hyuk turned his head. Just slightly. Eyes half-lidded, expression blank—but deadly.

That. It was a warning stare. And all three immediately backed out of the flap like they'd just seen death itself.

Outside the tent, moments later...

“Okay,” Jang-Mi whispered, breathless with laughter, “that was terrifying.”

“Did you see the way he looked at us?” Dong-Ju hissed. “Like he was mentally strangling all three of us.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw my life flash before my eyes,” Gyeong-Won muttered.

“Honestly,” Jang-Mi said, beaming now, “the way Jaewon was passed out on that bed like a kicked puppy and Professor Baek was watching him like he’s the last thing on Earth worth protecting—ugh.”

“Oh no,” Dong-Ju said with mock horror, “she’s entering her fanfiction mode again.”

Jang-Mi clutched her chest dramatically. “You wouldn’t understand the art. The tension. The angst. The hands slightly touching. The ‘I’d rather die than wake you’ stare!”

“You need help,” Gyeong-Won said flatly.

“Let them have this,” Jang-Mi said, a bit softer now. “God knows they’ve earned it.”

And for once, none of them disagreed.

Back in the tent...

Kang-hyuk’s gaze returned to Jaewon, still peacefully asleep at his bedside. He let out a slow breath.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

But his hand shifted again—fingers lightly, deliberately curling around Jaewon’s. And this time, he let himself close his eyes, too.

---

Kang-hyuk's Recovery Tent

Jaewon was back at the tent, he was back for a small check-up. When he got in, he saw Kang-hyuk fast asleep. He smiled slightly, happy to see him sleeping soundlessly. He must've been tired... Jaewon slowly approached his bed and sat in the chair beside his bed, looking over the monitor—stable. And again, he looks at him—his face pale, hands covered with battle scars, then reflexively, Jaewon had the urge to caress Kang-hyuk's arm, for the very least he wanted to make sure he was there, with him—he needed to feel his presence, his warmth, his very being beside him. 

It's dawn outside, the sunset hue shone through the tent—it was warm. His eyes got heavy, and slowly, his head rested at the edge of Kang-hyuk's bed. Eyes closing shut, hands still lingering to his—keeping him grounded. And finally, in his sleep, he feels safe...

---

The first light of morning seeped through the thin tent flaps, a pale golden hue washing over the still form lying on the cot. Kang-hyuk stirred. The pain was dull and distant, but present—like a fire simmering just beneath skin. He was vaguely aware of the scent of antiseptic, the muffled beeping of machines, the plastic crinkle of IV lines taped to his arm.

But more than that, he felt warmth. Not from the sun. Not from the blankets. From a presence.

He turned his head slowly, every movement dragging pain behind it, and found Jaewon slumped beside the bed, chin resting on folded arms, his breathing deep and steady in sleep. His hair was a mess. There was a smudge of dried blood—Kang-hyuk’s, maybe—on his sleeve. His brows were furrowed even in unconsciousness.

He hadn’t left. Kang-hyuk’s chest constricted—not from the wound, not from the cracked rib, but something deeper. Something older. Jaewon’s hand was still in his. Fingers limp now, relaxed in sleep, but at some point during the night, they had clearly held tight. Kang-hyuk remembered flashes of pain, of bright lights and Jaewon’s voice calling him back—don’t you dare die on me—and then darkness.

And now? Now he was here. Alive.

He squeezed Jaewon’s hand gently. Not to wake him. Just to remember it.

But Jaewon stirred anyway, mumbling something incoherent before blinking his eyes open slowly. “Mmngh… time for meds…?”

Kang-hyuk smiled faintly. “Good morning.” Jaewon froze. Their eyes locked. Then—“You’re awake,” Jaewon said breathlessly, like he’d been holding it in for days.

Kang-hyuk nodded, the motion small. Jaewon straightened, suddenly all doctor again, hands checking vitals, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion carved into his face. “You shouldn’t be talking. Your vitals dipped last night. You still have shrapnel near the iliac crest. The burns—”

“Jaewon.”

He stopped. Kang-hyuk’s voice was hoarse, soft. “You stayed.”

Jaewon looked away. “Someone had to monitor you.”

“That’s not why.”

Silence. Kang-hyuk looked like he wanted to say something else—but he didn’t. He just watched Jaewon with quiet eyes, tired eyes, like he was memorizing him again.

Jaewon folded his arms, clearly trying to regain distance. “You still owe me an explanation from last night.”

Kang-hyuk’s face shuddered instantly.

“…Forget it.”

“No.”

“It was nothing.”

“Hyung!” Jaewon snapped, stepping closer. “You said, ‘Jaewon, I—’ and then you flatlined. You don’t get to walk that back.”

Kang-hyuk looked up at him, the deflection dying in his throat. He wanted to say it. God, he wanted to say it. But Jaewon was already fragile. Already hurting. And this—whatever it was between them—was too raw to touch right now.

“I was delirious,” Kang-hyuk said quietly. Jaewon stared at him for a long moment. Then stepped back. “Right,” he said flatly, turning to grab the clipboard. “I’ll tell the nurses you’re awake.”

And then he was gone. Kang-hyuk let out a slow breath.

Then turned his head—and glared. Right at the trauma team huddled at the flap, peeking in with faces ranging from “uh-oh” to “popcorn-worthy.”

Jang-Mi blinked. “...I think that went well?”

Gyeong-Won elbowed Dong-Ju. “You owe me ten bucks. He didn’t confess.”

“I almost did,” Kang-hyuk grunted, voice still raspy.

“I’m shocked you didn’t flatline just to avoid it again,” Jang-Mi muttered.

Kang-hyuk glared again. They took the hint. Except Jang-Mi, who leaned in and whispered with a smirk, “Don’t worry. He still held your hand all night.” Kang-hyuk turned his head away—hiding the faint flush. She grinned. And gently closed the flap behind her.

---

The field hospital had quieted into a rare, humming stillness. Crickets chirped beyond the flap. Somewhere, a power generator buzzed low. Most of the trauma team had finally crashed for a few hours of sleep—except Jaewon. He returned to the tent slowly, his steps uncertain.

Kang-hyuk was awake, sitting up slightly with an extra pillow behind his back, IV lines still running, skin pale but less gray now. His bandages had been changed. The bloodstains were gone—but the weight in his eyes wasn’t.

“You’re back,” Kang-hyuk murmured.

“I never left,” Jaewon replied, pulling up the chair. “I just needed air.”

Their gazes lingered.

“I’m not gonna push you,” Jaewon said after a pause. “Not about earlier. If you don’t want to say it, fine.”

Kang-hyuk’s throat bobbed. But something in his expression cracked—softer now. Vulnerable in the way he never let himself be. He looked at Jaewon like he wanted to memorize him again. Like he was trying to gather the courage to step off a cliff he’d spent years pretending didn’t exist.

“I wanted to say something back there,” Kang-hyuk said, voice low. Jaewon’s eyes flicked to his.

“And I don’t think I can keep not saying it.” His chest tightened. “I’m not good with words,” Kang-hyuk continued. “Never have been. But when I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, the only thing I could think about was you. And how I never—how I should’ve—” His voice broke for just a second. “I should’ve told you,” he whispered.

Jaewon’s breath caught. “Professor…”

“I—”

BZZZZZTTT.

The comm device outside the tent blared. A loud knock hit the pole, followed by a gruff voice. “Kang-hyuk. It’s Jin-seok. I need five minutes.”

Jaewon turned, jaw clenching. “Now? Seriously?” Kang-hyuk's eyes dimmed. His shoulders stiffened like armor snapping back into place. “Yeah. It’s okay. Let him in.”

Jaewon stared at him for a moment longer. He knew that look—Kang-hyuk was shutting down again, hiding behind orders and missions and old, ingrained shields. The moment was gone.

Jin-seok stepped in, eyes scanning Kang-hyuk with clinical precision. He gave Jaewon a nod but didn’t wait for niceties.

“We intercepted movement from the remnants of ITHACA. Someone’s trying to retrieve the corrupted server fragments before we finish decryption.” Kang-hyuk sat straighter despite the grimace of pain. “Location?”

Jaewon looked between them, disbelief blooming across his face. “You can’t even walk without support,” he snapped. “You’re still bleeding. You don’t get to jump back into war because your damn pride won’t let you rest.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. Jin-seok’s expression tightened. “We don’t have time for debates. You’re not going in—not yet. But we do need your briefing before tomorrow.” Kang-hyuk nodded once. Jin-seok gave Jaewon a fleeting look—part apology, part warning—and exited with a swift turn of his coat.

Silence returned like a slap. Kang-hyuk leaned back, face unreadable. Jaewon stood frozen at the side of the bed, knuckles white from gripping the chair. “You were gonna say something,” he said quietly.

Kang-hyuk didn’t meet his eyes. “Now’s not the time.”

“There’s never time with you, is there?”

Still, silence. Jaewon stepped back, his voice softer now, breaking despite himself. “You always pull away the second it gets real.”

“I don’t want to drag you into this,” Kang-hyuk said finally. “Project ITHACA is still alive. And I—I don’t know if I’ll walk out again next time.”

“I don’t care!” Jaewon burst, stepping forward again. “You think I haven’t already been dragged in? You think watching you nearly die didn’t destroy me?!”

Kang-hyuk stared at him now, and there it was again—that look. The one filled with everything he hadn’t said. But he only said: “You should rest.”

Jaewon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Say it now. Or I swear to god, I won’t wait around next time.” Kang-hyuk’s hand twitched on the blanket. He looked like he might break—like he might finally stop running. But instead… “I’ll tell you when this is over,” he said, voice low. “When I can make sure you’re safe. I promise.”

Jaewon turned, fists clenched, eyes burning—and walked out without a word. Kang-hyuk let the silence settle like a punishment he knew he deserved.

Outside the tent, Jang-Mi and Dong-Ju exchanged a glance. “…That man is the king of almost-confessions,” Dong-Ju muttered.

Gyeong-Won sighed. “I give it three days before Jaewon throws a scalpel at him.”

“Five minutes,” Jang-Mi smirked.

---

Briefing Room—Late Night

The air was still, too still, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

The trauma team gathered in silence around the circular table inside the old briefing room, now dimly lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs. A military-grade projector cast grainy images of the destroyed ITHACA facilities, maps, coordinates, and faces of targets still at large. Jin-seok took point, his expression grim, suit slightly wrinkled from days without sleep.

"This isn’t over," he said, voice cold. "The last stronghold is deeper into the borderlands. Black Wings will be going back in."

Kang-hyuk sat stone-faced at the head of the table. Jaewon, seated across from him, stared—not at the screen, but at Kang-hyuk. His throat felt dry.

"We can’t just let you walk into that again," Jang-Mi said, her voice cracking. “You almost died last time.”

"This time," Dong-Ju added quietly, "you might not come back."

"I have to," Kang-hyuk finally spoke, low and certain. “If I don’t finish this… the rest of us will never be safe. Jaewon—” He stopped himself. “The hospital. All of you. You’ll still be targets.”

“But we’re a team,” Gyeong-Won said. “You’re one of us now. Not them. Can't you just let Jin-seok and his team deal with all of this?”

Jaewon’s fists clenched. Kang-hyuk didn’t look at him. Jin-seok glanced sideways but didn’t interfere. Not yet.

“We leave tonight,” Kang-hyuk said, rising to his feet. The room fell into silence, a fracture forming in the very heart of the team.

---

The world had gone quiet, save for the soft hum of engines and the distant rumble of helicopters. Kang-hyuk walked toward the convoy, duffel slung over one shoulder, fully geared up in black. He didn’t look back. Because if he did, he wouldn’t leave. Not again.

“Professor!”

The voice cracked through the night like thunder. Kang-hyuk turned just in time to see Jaewon running down the driveway, breathless, eyes wide—wet.

Jaewon didn’t stop. He crashed into him, arms wrapping tightly around Kang-hyuk’s torso. He trembled. “Don’t go,” he whispered, face buried in Kang-hyuk’s shoulder. “Please don’t go. I can’t—I can’t do this again.”

Kang-hyuk’s arms hung in the air for a second. Then, slowly, they lowered, wrapping around Jaewon as if trying to memorize how it felt. As if this would be the last time.

"I don’t want to go,” Kang-hyuk murmured. “God, I don’t. But I have to finish this.”

Jaewon pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. His lip trembled. “What if you don’t come back?”

“I will.”

“You can’t promise that.”

Kang-hyuk’s jaw clenched. “Then let me promise something else.” He raised a hand, thumb brushing a tear off Jaewon’s cheek. “After this,” he said, “when it’s over... when I come back—I’ll listen. To everything. Say what you need to say then. When we’re safe.”

Jaewon swallowed back a sob. “Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll come back in one piece.”

Kang-hyuk leaned his forehead against Jaewon’s, his voice thick. “I promise.”

From behind, Jin-seok gave a quiet signal. Time was up. Kang-hyuk stepped back slowly, tearing himself away. Jaewon stood still, arms hanging by his sides, tears glistening in the moonlight. Kang-hyuk looked at him one last time, memorizing everything—the curve of his mouth, the furrow of his brow, the pain he couldn’t hide.

And then he turned.

Jaewon didn’t call out again. He let him go. Because if he said more, he wouldn’t let Kang-hyuk leave at all.

And somewhere in the wind, the words he didn’t say echoed like a prayer; “I love you, I’m sorry.”

---

Black Wings Military Site—Nightfall, 5 days after Kang-hyuk leaving

The cold wind bit harder up here, slicing through the concrete silence of the facility’s rooftop. It was supposed to be quiet, calm. The mission was over. But they hadn’t heard anything yet.

Jaewon stood on the edge of the helipad, chest tight, eyes locked on the empty sky. The rest of the trauma team lingered behind him—Jang-Mi pacing, Dong-Ju chewing on a fingernail, and Gyeong-Won silently gripping the strap of his med bag like a lifeline.

Time stretched. No updates. No messages. Just that sickening silence that always came before the worst kind of news.

And then—The distant, rhythmic pulse of helicopter blades echoed against the mountains.

Jaewon’s heart stopped.

Gyeong-Won snapped his head up. Jang-Mi let out a breath like a sob. Dong-Ju sprinted for the comms tower to confirm. But Jaewon didn’t wait. He ran. Down the corridor, out the reinforced doors, across the landing pad—the wind from the rotor wash hit him like a wall, but he didn’t stop. His feet skidded across concrete, eyes burning as the chopper touched down and the side hatch swung open.

And there he was. Kang-hyuk. Helmet tucked under his arm, bruised and limping, jacket torn and blackened from some explosion they’d never speak of—but alive. Standing. Breathing. Just like he promised.

Jaewon stopped dead, chest heaving. His vision blurred.

Kang-hyuk stepped out, eyes scanning past the others… and locked with Jaewon’s.

Neither of them moved for a second.

And then Jaewon did. He launched forward, fists clenched like he might punch him, scream at him, drag him back inside—but all he did was crash into him, arms locking tight around his shoulders. The momentum nearly knocked Kang-hyuk off balance.

“You idiot,” Jaewon choked out, voice breaking. “You said you'd come back. You—”

“I did,” Kang-hyuk whispered into his shoulder, voice wrecked and shaking. “I told you. I’d come back to you.”

The world spun around them—chaos, shouting, the trauma team running in—but in that moment, nothing else mattered. Just this: Jaewon’s grip around Kang-hyuk like he’d never let go again...

---

Kang-hyuk sat on the exam table, his shirt half peeled off, revealing bruises like ink spills down his ribs. The dried blood on his temple had crusted over, mixing with dust and soot, but his eyes—god, those tired, battered eyes—never left Jaewon.

The trauma team had dragged him in like a VIP patient, hovering with a kind of reverent fear, none of them really believing he was back.

“You should lie down,” Jaewon said quietly, reaching for a suture kit. His hands shook. He clenched them once to steady them, then moved toward the wound at Kang-hyuk’s side.

“I’m fine standing.”

“Hyung.” The word slipped out, raw. A warning. A plea. “Please.”

And that was all it took.

Kang-hyuk eased down onto his back, his breath hitching from the pain. Jaewon gently pressed gauze to his side, eyes scanning every inch of him like he still couldn’t quite believe he was real. Like he was going to vanish if he blinked too long.

Behind them, Jang-Mi and Dong-Ju hovered by the door, whispering furiously to each other.

“I knew he’d come back, but like... I didn’t know-know.”

“Did you see Jaewon’s face? I thought he was going to punch him or propose—”

“Both.”

Gyeong-Won just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “They’ll talk when they’re ready.”

Jaewon focused on the gash near Kang-hyuk’s shoulder, cleaning it in silence.

“You hesitated,” Jaewon finally murmured, almost inaudible over the hum of fluorescent lights.

Kang-hyuk’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“When you got off the helicopter. You looked around like—like you weren’t sure I’d be there.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. His hand, resting loosely on the exam table, curled into a fist.

“You always do that,” Jaewon went on, voice trembling now. “You shoulder everything alone. You disappear, come back half-dead, and look at me like you’re afraid to be seen.”

A beat.

“I waited,” Jaewon said, finally looking him in the eye. “I waited for you.”

Their breaths tangled between them, shallow and uneven.

“I know,” Kang-hyuk said hoarsely. “And it’s the only reason I made it back.”

Jaewon swallowed hard, fingers pausing mid-stitch. The overhead light buzzed. Somewhere down the hall, a siren flickered on and off. The silence that followed was too heavy for the others.

Dong-Ju fumbled for a fake excuse. “We should, uh... check on inventory. Right? Right, Jang-Mi?”

“Yeah. Supplies. Very urgent. Definitely not eavesdropping.”

They all scattered like guilty teenagers. Gyeong-Won followed last, giving Kang-hyuk a nod and Jaewon a glance that said just say it already before closing the med bay door behind him. The room was too quiet now. Jaewon slowly set the suture needle down. “You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t.”

“You almost did.”

“I had to finish it, Jaewon.”

“And if finishing it meant I never saw you again?” His voice cracked—just a little, but it was enough. “If that helicopter came back empty?” Kang-hyuk pushed himself upright, wincing as the stitches pulled. “Then I’d regret never saying—” He stopped.

Jaewon’s breath caught. “Saying what?”

Kang-hyuk looked down, then away. Then right at him.

“I told you to wait until it was over,” he said softly. “It’s over now.”

Jaewon blinked. The words hovered between them, suspended in too much history, too much restraint. “Then say it.”

Kang-hyuk stared at him for a long moment. And then—Footsteps. The door slammed open.

“Guys, not to interrupt the obvious moment happening in here, but we have a situation,” Jang-Mi blurted out, breathless. “There’s chatter about leftover ITHACA files. Someone’s trying to wipe the records—again.”

Jaewon shot up, a mix of exasperation and panic twisting across his face. Kang-hyuk let out a breath like a silent curse.

“We’ll finish this later,” he said.

Jaewon gave him one last look—haunted, unspoken, burning—and nodded. Then they were moving again, side by side, like they hadn’t almost broken down, like the words still hanging between them weren’t louder than the alarms starting to ring again.

---

Abandoned Underground Data Vault—Final ITHACA Site

They’d tracked it to a silent mountain. Below it: a buried lab, an unlisted data vault—Project ITHACA’s last breath, still trying to erase itself from history.

Kang-hyuk stood at the front of the tactical line, jaw clenched, every bruise and stitch from the last mission still raw. Jaewon was behind him—not because he didn’t want to stop him, but because now he was going with him. This time, they were doing it together. At first, Kang-hyuk refused his request to come with him to the site, but the whole trauma team insisted. They were all part of this, it felt right to be there with Kang-hyuk, to end this nightmare. 

Eventually, Kang-hyuk agreed but had his own terms. The trauma team wasn’t far—scattered across med stations outside the site, ready to treat casualties if this all went sideways.

It almost did. Explosions rocked the vault entrance. Armed guards—remnants of the corrupted research security—tried to stop them. Kang-hyuk moved like fire: clean, sharp, surgical. Jaewon covered him, eyes never leaving his back.

Down in the vault, the servers were already running a final purge sequence. They had minutes. Kang-hyuk found it: the master console. A final passcode needed. It wasn’t digital—it was biometric.

His fingerprint. His name. He stared at it. “They used me as the key,” he muttered. “I was always part of the lock.”

“Then break it,” Jaewon said beside him. “End it. You have the right.”

Kang-hyuk placed his hand on the scanner. The servers whined. Lights died. The purge stopped mid-process. A hard reset began. Every file, every video, every trial name—downloaded, backed up, sent straight to a public encrypted server.

Truth unleashed.

Project ITHACA: terminated.

Chapter Text

Rooftop of Black Wings Facility

It was over.

The chaos, the sirens, the endless running into fire—Project ITHACA, the lies, the shadows that had haunted them for so long. Gone. Finished. Buried beneath classified files and burned-out husks of what used to be the battlefield.

And now, above it all, was only this: a rooftop bathed in quiet.

No gunfire. No screaming. No stretchers sliding past blood-slick corridors. Just the hum of stillness. Cold air brushing their faces like a balm. Stars blinking out from behind clouds that had finally parted.

The rooftop overlooked the ruins of everything they’d fought through—blackened buildings and distant searchlights now idle. For once, the night didn't reek of smoke or adrenaline. It just breathed. Calm. Real.

Kang-hyuk stood at the edge of the rooftop, gloved hands gripping the metal railing like if he let go, he might drift off with the wind. His muscles were locked, body trembling—not from fear, not anymore, but from the sudden absence of it. The adrenaline was gone, drained, leaving only aching hands, raw nerves, and a heartbeat still pounding like it hadn’t caught up to the quiet yet.

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

He didn’t need to look. He knew.

Jaewon stepped into view beside him, two steaming mugs of instant coffee in hand. His face was pale in the starlight, exhaustion carved beneath his eyes, but his expression—his eyes—held something else. Something softer. Something unspoken.

“You did it,” Jaewon said, his voice low, almost reverent.

Kang-hyuk shook his head slowly, a tired, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We did.”

The mugs clinked gently as they sipped—cheap, instant, lukewarm by now, but it could’ve been champagne for all they cared. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The silence that stretched between them wasn’t hollow or awkward. It was full. Weighty. It buzzed with things unsaid, things felt. The kind of silence that comes only after surviving hell and dragging yourself back from it—together.

Kang-hyuk was the first to break it.

“I thought finishing this would make me feel lighter,” he murmured. “But I don’t. Not even a little.”

Jaewon turned to him, the lines between his brows creasing with quiet worry. “Why not?”

Kang-hyuk stared out at the horizon, breath fogging faintly in the cold air. His hands clenched around the coffee mug, knuckles whitening.

“Because this—” he lifted one bruised, trembling hand and gestured between them, voice barely steady, “—was never just about the mission. It was about what I was afraid to lose.”

Silence. Then—

Jaewon’s breath hitched, so faint Kang-hyuk almost missed it.

“Then say it,” Jaewon whispered, like the words themselves might crack the night open.

Kang-hyuk blinked, slowly. “You always ask me to say it.”

Jaewon nodded, barely. “Because I need to hear it. Just once. From you.”

The rooftop lights cast a dim gold halo along the edge of Kang-hyuk’s jaw, his profile sharp against the dark sky. He turned—fully turned—until he was facing Jaewon completely, entirely, like he was finally choosing this. Choosing him.

And Jaewon—God. He couldn’t breathe.

Because Kang-hyuk’s eyes burned. Not just with longing, but years of it. Regret. Devotion. Grief. Every moment they had lost and every moment they still had, all crashing into that single look.

“I waited until it was over,” Kang-hyuk said, voice low and raw, like it had been torn from somewhere deep inside. “I did everything I had to do. Fought everything. Survived everything. So I could come back and tell you... it’s always been you, Jaewon.”

Jaewon’s chest cracked wide open. His throat closed around a sob he didn’t let fall. His eyes stung.

“Since the first time you yelled at me in the ER for overstepping,” Kang-hyuk continued. “Since you fought me on every damn case, but never once let me fall. Since you ran to me on that helipad like your world was ending.”

Jaewon couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. They welled, silent and burning, and he gripped his mug like it was the only thing tethering him.

“Say it again,” he begged, voice splintered.

Kang-hyuk took a step forward. And another. Until they were inches apart. Until the air between them thrummed like a live wire. Like the earth itself was holding its breath.

“I love you,” Kang-hyuk said. And this time, it wasn’t just a confession. It was a promise. A surrender. A battle cry. It was everything he'd never said, laid bare.

Jaewon exhaled like he’d been drowning. And then he moved.

Not with hesitation. Not with fear. But with years of restraint snapping all at once.

His hands fisted into the collar of Kang-hyuk’s jacket, pulling him in, chest to chest. And Kang-hyuk melted into him like he belonged there, arms wrapping around Jaewon’s waist like he was afraid this was still a dream.

Their foreheads touched first—breaths mingling, trembling, reverent. Their eyes fluttered closed.

And then, Kang-hyuk tilted his head.

Jaewon leaned in.

Their lips met.

And the world stopped.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t neat. It was messy and breathless and wild, like years of near-misses and could-have-beens colliding in one explosion of everything they’d held back. It was desperate. Starving. Like every time they’d stitched wounds in silence, or stood too close, or lingered too long—all of it had been building to this.

Jaewon kissed him like he was taking back every second he’d had to pretend. Like he was alive for the first time.

Kang-hyuk kissed him like he was grounding himself, anchoring to Jaewon like he was the only thing real left in the world.

Hands tangled. Bodies pressed closer. The cold forgotten. Their mouths parted and reconnected again and again like they couldn’t bear to stop. Like if they stopped, it might all disappear.

And when they finally pulled away, breathless and dazed, their foreheads pressed together once more. They didn’t speak. They just stood there, eyes closed, feeling each other’s breath. The weight of it. The rightness of it.

Jaewon let out a shaky, tear-laced laugh. “You took your damn time.”

Kang-hyuk gave a breathless huff of a smile, chest still heaving. “I was waiting for permission.”

Jaewon shook his head, nose brushing Kang-hyuk’s. His voice was a whisper, but it cut straight to the bone.

“You don’t need it,” he said. “Not anymore.”

And above them, the stars kept shining.

Because the war was over.

And this—this kiss, this moment, this love—was what had survived.

---

Hankuk Hospital

It's been weeks since the whole team has been back at the hospital, at their pace. It was chaos as usual. A four-car pile-up. Two trauma codes. Dong-Ju dropping a tray of scalpels and pretending it didn’t happen. Jang-Mi yelling across the hallway because someone messed up a chart timestamp by 45 seconds.

And in the middle of it all?

Jaewon and Kang-hyuk… pretending everything was normal. Too normal.

Jaewon was charting at the nurse’s station with suspicious efficiency. Kang-hyuk, across from him, silently reviewing case files like he didn’t kiss the man weeks ago on a rooftop under the stars. Like he didn't just confess his whole heart to the man he has loved for all this time.

But Jang-mi? She knew. She felt it in her bones. She saw the shift in the way Jaewon handed Kang-hyuk a report. The millisecond-long glance. The half smile. The fact that Jaewon hadn’t snapped at anyone all day.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

“YANG JAEWON!” she shouted, startling two nurses and a very confused med student.

Jaewon looked up, blinking like a deer in headlights.

“Come with me.”

“What? I’m working—”

“I said. Come. With. Me.”

Jaewon sighed but followed. She dragged him into the med storage closet like a detective with a warrant.

“What's going on with you?” she demanded.

Jaewon blinked. “nothing?”

“Try again.”

“Uh? I've been working like usual?”

Jang-Mi narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make me call Gyeong-Won and start a chart audit on your emotional stability.”

Jaewon crossed his arms, lips twitching with barely restrained amusement. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re glowing, and not in the ‘hydrated skin’ way, and I know something happened. Tell me.”

Jaewon just smiled. “I think I hear a code blue.” He slipped out before she could grab him again. Jang-Mi could only gawk at him, she was too frustrated with this. That's it. She has made up her mind; It's time to interrogate the next victim—Kang-hyuk.

---

OR Corridor

“PROFESSOR BAEK!” Jang-Mi’s voice was sharp now.

He looked up from his surgical prep tray. “Hm?”

“Come with me.”

“Gangster, don't you see I’m scrubbing in.”

“You’ll survive.”

Now it was his turn to be dragged—into the break room this time, where she shoved him against the coffee counter.

“Did something happen between you and Jaewon?”

Kang-hyuk blinked. “…We completed a mission.”

“Not what I meant.”

“We didn’t get shot.”

“Still not what I meant.”

He stared her down, expression unreadable, until she finally groaned and stormed out.

---

Hospital Lounge

The whole trauma team was there. Dong-Ju eating chips out of a specimen cup. Gyeong-Won reading a textbook upside down. Jaewon typing a report. Kang-hyuk sipping his coffee like it wasn’t a weapon.

Jang-Mi burst in, slamming her hands on the table. “Okay,” she declared. “One of you is going to crack.”

The room froze.

“I know something happened. You two—” she pointed accusingly at Kang-hyuk and Jaewon “—are being weird. And I know weird. I invented weird.”

Silence. Jaewon didn’t even look up. Kang-hyuk raised an eyebrow. “Is this a medical emergency?”

Dong-Ju tried to whistle and failed. And then—Gyeong-Won cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said casually. “I’m just gonna say it.” Jang-Mi spun around like she’d been blessed. Gyeong-Won closed his book and shrugged. “They’re obviously dating.”

Silence. mAbsolute, complete, shocked silence. Jang-Mi’s mouth fell open. Dong-Ju choked on his chips.

Jaewon looked up so fast it almost gave him whiplash. “Excuse me?” Kang-hyuk blinked. “We’re what?”

Gyeong-Won rolled his eyes. “You kissed on the roof, didn’t you?”

The table exploded.

“YOU KISSED?” Jang-mi shrieked.

Dong-Ju adds, “ON THE ROOF? That’s so drama series of you—”

Jaewon buried his face in his hands. “I’m never hearing the end of this.”

Kang-hyuk just sipped his coffee again. “I warned you all.”

Jang-Mi was still in disbelief, “You didn’t warn me about a slowburn romance happening under my nose!”

Gyeong-Won smirked. “I take full credit. My matchmaking skills are unmatched.”

Dong-ju stares at Gyeong-Won, “You didn’t do anything, bro—”

Chaos. Beautiful, wholesome, post-ITHACA chaos.

Jaewon looked across the table at Kang-hyuk, who met his gaze with the smallest hint of a smile. And despite the yelling, the teasing, the ridiculousness of it all—It finally felt like peace.

---

Trauma Center Unit

It started like any other Tuesday.

The trauma bay buzzed with routine chaos—an ambulance offloading a fractured femur, Gyeong-Won grumbling about someone stealing his pen again, and Kang-hyuk leaning against the supply cabinet with that haunted stillness Jaewon hated yet somehow never had a problem with it. There was a lull, then a beep, then the slam of doors—and everything shifted.

“GSW to the abdomen,” the paramedic shouted as they rolled in a man on a stretcher. Pale. Mid-thirties. Barefoot, bloodied, unshaven. There was something off about him—something unplaceable and wrong that clung to the air like formaldehyde.

“No ID,” the paramedic added. “Collapsed in a parking garage. He walked in on his own feet.”

“He walked?” Jaewon’s voice was sharp as he stepped forward. The vitals were spiraling—BP barely hanging on at 90/60, tachycardic, but his breathing was shallow. And yet… the man’s eyes were open. Staring. As if he was watching something just over Jaewon’s shoulder. Something that wasn't there.

“Let’s expose,” Jang-Mi said, snapping on gloves. She pulled the patient’s shirt up and froze. “Wait. There’s no entry wound.”

“No blood at the scene either,” the paramedic said. “It’s like it started from the inside.”

Jaewon blinked. He leaned in. Beneath the bruises and smeared blood were faint, nearly faded surgical scars. Old. Jagged. Crude. The kind no licensed surgeon would ever leave behind.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Jang-Mi muttered, already prepping for the FAST scan. “If this is internal bleeding, what ruptured?”

“Look at the scar pattern,” Kang-hyuk murmured from the side, voice quiet but cutting. He’d moved closer without anyone noticing, eyes narrowed as if he recognized something he didn’t want to. “Right upper quadrant. Left lower. And here—lateral lumbar…”

Jaewon followed his gaze. The line of incisions. The erratic, repeated trauma to the same regions.

“These aren’t trauma wounds,” Kang-hyuk said, eyes dark. “They’re harvest lines.”

The words landed with a thud in the silence. Even Jang-Mi looked up.

“Harvest…?” she echoed.

Jaewon swallowed. “You think someone took his—”

“CT now,” Kang-hyuk said, cutting him off. “Full-body. Before he crashes.”

They barely made it.

Thirty minutes later, Jaewon stood in the radiology suite staring at the screen, pulse roaring in his ears.

“Missing left kidney,” the radiologist said, her voice thin. “Portion of the liver resected. No surgical clips. No record of transplant. No admission files anywhere in the system. It’s like—he was operated on outside the system.”

“Black market?” Jaewon asked, though he already knew.

“I don’t know how he’s still alive,” she whispered.

Back in trauma, the patient was crashing again. Jang-Mi was trying to stabilize him, Gyeong-Won calling out vitals, but the moment Jaewon leaned in to adjust the line, the man’s hand shot out and clamped around his wrist.

His grip was weak—but his eyes… they were clear. Lucid. Terrified.

“Don’t save me,” he rasped. Blood stained his teeth. “They’ll come looking.”

“Who?” Jaewon asked, heart kicking up. “Who’s coming?”

But the monitor flatlined.

Just like that.

A flat, endless tone that cut through the room like a scalpel. He was gone.

Jaewon stood there, frozen, the man’s hand still wrapped around his wrist like a final warning

The crash was immediate. Jaewon’s chest felt hollow as the beep of the monitor stretched into a scream. He pulled away from the patient’s hand, stumbling back. The room was closing in on him—the tight space, the sterile smell, the weight of too many unspoken words between him and Kang-hyuk. Don’t save him. Those words echoed in his mind like a broken record.

Kang-hyuk was already at the head of the bed, ordering the team to move faster, to push the codes harder. But Jaewon couldn’t stop staring at the lifeless form in front of him. The strange, dead calm that had held the patient’s eyes as he’d spoken that last warning. It was too deliberate.

“Get him on the table,” Jaewon finally said, breaking from his trance. “I want an autopsy. Now.”

Jang-Mi shot him a glance, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

“He’s not officially dead yet, Jaewon,” Gyeong-Won protested. “You’re not even sure what this is yet.”

“I don’t care,” Jaewon snapped. “Get me an autopsy now.”

Kang-hyuk’s gaze flickered to Jaewon. For a moment, the weight of the past few weeks seemed to hang between them—an invisible wall Jaewon couldn’t breach. His mind was racing, but it was only a blur of half-formed thoughts. He had to get answers. He had to. Because somewhere, someone was getting away with something unspeakable.

“Fine.” Kang-hyuk exhaled slowly, then turned toward the door. “I’ll handle the paperwork. Get the body moved.”

As soon as Kang-hyuk left, Jaewon grabbed Jang-Mi by the arm, pulling her aside.

“You have to trust me,” he said, voice low. “There’s something wrong here—something bigger than what we’re seeing.”

Jang-Mi looked at him, confused. “What are you talking about? The guy’s dead. There’s nothing more to—”

“His organs were taken,” Jaewon interrupted, staring at her, frustration bubbling under his skin. “And not just taken. Removed while he was still alive. We’re talking about an illegal organ trade. And if we don’t find out who’s behind this, it’s going to happen again. We need to act fast.”

Jang-Mi hesitated, eyes wide with disbelief. But Jaewon could see it—she believed him, she had to. They’d both seen enough in their line of work to know that when something felt off, it usually was. She nodded, her expression hardening with resolve.

“Let’s make sure we’re the first ones to figure this out. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

Chapter Text

Jaewon sat alone in the darkened office of the trauma unit, staring at the man’s file. There was nothing in the system. No history. No records. Not a trace of who he was, where he’d come from, or why he was dumped in the ER like some nameless body. It felt like the world was actively erasing him.

No ID. No one even knew his name.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but before he could type, the door creaked open.

Kang-hyuk stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the harsh light from the hallway. He had the kind of look that meant he’d been working on something—something heavy.

“You’re still here,” Jaewon said, trying to mask the exhaustion creeping into his voice.

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a step forward, then another, his expression unreadable. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when I know what happened.” Jaewon’s voice was tight, like a coil pulled too tight. “You know something, don’t you? You always know.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t flinch. “I know something's off. But we need to be careful. This isn’t something we can just—”

“Be careful?” Jaewon cut him off, standing abruptly. “What if next time it’s one of us? What if we’re the ones who wake up with our organs gone and our lives erased? We don’t have time to be careful.”

Kang-hyuk held up a hand, his voice quieter now. “I know. But you’re not seeing the bigger picture. This goes deeper than one patient, Jaewon. Whoever is pulling the strings has connections—serious ones. And if we start digging too deep…”

Jaewon’s pulse quickened. “What are you saying?”

Kang-hyuk’s eyes darkened, the weight of whatever he knew pressing down on them both. “What I’m saying is, someone is keeping an eye on you. On us. And if you keep pushing this, they will notice.”

Jaewon felt his blood run cold. He’d known things were getting dangerous, but hearing it—hearing it from Kang-hyuk—made it real. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls of their small office feeling like a cage. He glanced down at the file in front of him, then back at Kang-hyuk.

“I won’t stop,” Jaewon said, his voice a low whisper. “Not until I know who did this to him. To all of them.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. “Then we do this together.”

---

Jaewon stood at the edge of the morgue, the cold air seeping into his bones. The autopsy report was in—but he hadn’t had the guts to read it yet. His mind was still racing with everything he’d just learned. There were too many pieces to this puzzle that didn’t fit.

When he opened the file, the first line hit him like a punch to the gut: Autopsy incomplete due to removal of organs postmortem. Further investigation required.

Jaewon’s stomach twisted. The report was clean, too clean. Like they’d intentionally scrubbed it to make sure no one could trace anything back.

And then, in the notes section, a single line stood out in bold: Follow up: Dr. Hong Min-Soo—suspicion of organ trafficking syndicate involvement.

Jaewon’s heart stuttered. Dr. Hong Min-Soo. That name was no stranger to him. An underground figure who had ties to several questionable research projects. A man who could disappear without a trace.

But what was his connection to all this?

“Jaewon?” Jaewon froze. The voice was Kang-hyuk’s, but there was something different in his tone. Something... off. He turned to find Kang-hyuk standing behind him, his face unreadable. “What’s wrong?” Jaewon asked, his voice tight with the sudden wave of fear.

Kang-hyuk stepped forward, slowly. His eyes locked onto the autopsy file, then back to Jaewon.

“We need to go after Dr. Hong. Before someone else does.”

---

The morning after the autopsy, the air in the trauma unit had changed.

It was something about the silence between shifts. The lingering tension that clung to the walls, invisible but unmistakable. Gyeong-Won noticed it first—how Jaewon hadn’t cracked a single joke in over twelve hours. How Kang-hyuk seemed more clipped than usual, as if every step he took was calculated restraint.

Jang-Mi cornered Gyeong-Won during a lull, her arms crossed as she whispered, “Something’s up.”

“No kidding,” Gyeong-Won muttered, glancing toward the break room where Jaewon and Kang-hyuk were talking behind a closed door. “You think it’s about the dead guy from yesterday?”

“You mean the one who walked in with organs already missing?” Jang-Mi scoffed. “Yeah. I do.”

Dong-Ju poked his head in. “They said it was classified.”

Jang-Mi rolled her eyes. “They always say that when they’re hiding something.”

In the break room, the mood was different.

“You should rest,” Kang-hyuk said, pouring hot water into a mug with careful precision. “Your eyes look like death warmed over.”

Jaewon sank into the couch with a groan, kicking his feet up on the table. “You say that like I’m not already surrounded by death.”

There was a beat of silence before Kang-hyuk handed him the tea.

Jaewon blinked. “Wait. You made me tea?”

Kang-hyuk avoided his gaze, suddenly very interested in the cup he was holding. “Don’t read into it.”

“Too late,” Jaewon grinned, taking a sip. “I’m officially writing this down in my mental relationship journal. Entry number four: Professor Baek made me tea.”

Kang-hyuk gave him a long look. “This is why I don’t do nice things.”

“You’re in too deep already,” Jaewon said smugly. “Might as well admit you like me.”

"Didn't I confess my love to you, Yang Jaewon?" Kang-hyuk smirked at him, “And besides, I like you alive,” He muttered. “Which is why we’re not involving the others. The less they know, the safer they are.”

Jaewon’s smile faded. “You really think this Dr. Hong is that dangerous?”

“I think,” Kang-hyuk said, lowering his voice, “that people like him don’t survive in shadows unless they have powerful friends who keep them there. And the moment we start digging around those friends, we become disposable.”

Outside, the team wasn’t waiting for permission.

Jang-Mi was already scanning old records, cross-referencing patient files with unexplained surgical scars. Gyeong-Won was combing through ambulance logs for anomalies. Dong-Ju, surprisingly quiet, was listening—really listening—to ER patients who came in unconscious, undocumented, or with missing time.

“We’re not stupid,” Jang-Mi said to the others later that evening. “They’re hiding something huge. And whatever it is… it already walked into our trauma unit.”

---

It was late, some of the staff had left their shift, and some had just come in for their shift. Kang-hyuk, on the other hand, just finished rounds with the residents. He was about to go into the on-call room, until he suddenly found Jaewon asleep, half-curled on the couch with a chart open on his chest. The lamplight softened the exhaustion on his face, casting his features in pale gold. For a long moment, Kang-hyuk just stood there.

The war in his chest hadn’t ended with ITHACA. It had only gone quiet. But standing here, looking at Jaewon now, something warm and slow unfurled in his chest—an ache that wasn’t pain for once. Something closer to peace.

He walked over, silently pulling the blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over Jaewon’s shoulders.

He paused—just a second—before letting his fingers brush over Jaewon’s hair.

“I like you,” he whispered so low it dissolved into the air. “Even when it’s hard.”

Jaewon stirred slightly, but didn’t wake. A small smile tugged at his lips, as if he’d heard it anyway.

---

The next morning, a patient coded in Trauma Bay 2. The cause? A ruptured liver graft that had never been logged in the national transplant registry. Jang-Mi caught it during the procedure—an unfamiliar suture technique. One that matched the crude scar patterns from the first victim.

She didn’t report it.

She brought the tissue sample straight to Jaewon instead.

He looked at her, then at the bag.

“How long have you been digging?”

“Since you told me not to,” she said, unflinching. “You want to shut me out, fine. But I’m not going to stand by while someone harvests people like cattle.”

Jaewon sighed, the weight of it all pressing down again. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Yes, I do,” Jang-Mi replied. “And I think… you’re going to need us more than you think.”

And Jaewon—tired, aching, terrified of what this all meant—finally nodded.

“Then let’s do this,” he said quietly. “Together.”

---

It started with a note. No return address. Slipped under the trauma office door.

“You’re getting close. Step back, or he bleeds next.”

Jaewon read it twice before his hands stopped shaking. Then a third time, just to be sure he hadn’t misread it. But the ink was dry. The message, final.

He crumpled it quietly and shoved it into his coat pocket—right as Kang-hyuk entered the room. “You okay?” Kang-hyuk’s eyes narrowed, immediately sensing the shift.

“Yeah,” Jaewon said, too fast. “Just... another anonymous complaint.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t believe him. He stepped closer, his voice low. “Jaewon. What was it?”

Jaewon hesitated, torn between protecting him and the reality that secrets were what got people killed. He exhaled, handed him the note.

The moment Kang-hyuk read it, his jaw set. “They’re watching you.”

Jaewon didn’t flinch. “Let them. I’m not backing down.”

“I’m not asking,” Kang-hyuk snapped. “You’re not going near this case again.”

But Jaewon was already shaking his head. “This is my hospital, too, Professor. My patients. I can’t just close my eyes and pretend—”

“I almost lost you once,” Kang-hyuk said, voice barely a whisper. “I’m not doing it again.”

A silence stretched between them. Neither moved. Then Jaewon stepped forward and placed a hand over Kang-hyuk’s.

“Then don’t lose me,” he said quietly. “Stand with me.”

Meanwhile, in an abandoned storage room, Dr. Hong Min-soo opened a sealed freezer unit.

Inside: rows of samples, carefully labeled. Liver. Kidney. Pancreas. Unknown origin. A man in a military-grade coat waited in the corner, face obscured.

“They’re digging,” the man said.

Hong Min-soo smiled as he closed the freezer. “Let them. The more they uncover, the more tangled they become. It’s always harder to cut free when your hands are bloody.”

---

Not to be surprised, but Jang-mi hacked into a secure hospital database and found it—a name buried in a redacted report from five years ago. Dr. Hong Min-soo. Former transplant specialist. Disappeared after a medical malpractice case was mysteriously dropped. The patient had died mid-surgery. No records. No autopsy. No donor registry entry.

“It was a ghost graft,” she muttered. “He implanted a stolen organ. The body rejected it.”

Dong-Ju paled. “And now he’s doing it again.”

“Worse,” Gyeong-Won said, pointing to the old report’s sponsor tag. “That case was under the Department of Public Security. He had government protection.”

Later that night, Kang-hyuk stood outside a gated estate in the outskirts of Seoul. He hadn’t told anyone. Not Jaewon. Not the team. Just coordinates pulled from a decrypted file Jang-Mi dug up in a hospital server.

The building was quiet—too quiet. No lights. No guards. But when Kang-hyuk stepped inside, he found the place still smelled like antiseptic.

Surgical tables. Bins of medical waste. A single wall lined with transplant documents, marked with coded names and patient tags.

And there—sitting calmly, as if expecting him—was Dr. Hong Min-soo.

“You came alone,” Min-soo said, folding his hands.

“I’m not here to talk,” Kang-hyuk replied, stepping forward. “I’m here to end this.”

Min-soo chuckled. “You’re too late, Kang-hyuk. This isn’t a conspiracy. It’s a system. Cut off the head, and it grows back. Faster. Smarter.”

“You threatened my student.”

Min-soo tilted his head. “Ah. Dr. Yang. He’s brave. Too brave. That’s always been a fatal flaw in lovers.” There was a slight smug smile shown from Min-soo, Kang-hyuk moved faster than thought—grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the wall. Surgical trays clattered to the floor.

“You so much as breathe in his direction again—”

“You’ll what?” Min-soo hissed. “Kill me? Then what, Kang-hyuk? What if he’s already on the list?” Kang-hyuk's eyes widened. He wanted to ignore his words, but his heart and instinct said otherwise...

Back at the hospital, Jaewon’s phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

He picked up—and all he heard was breathing.

Then, “Dr. Yang. They’re coming for you next.”

The line went dead.

---

The hospital lights never quite stopped buzzing overhead. Jaewon sat alone in the break room, hands clenched around a disposable coffee cup that had long gone cold. He kept hearing it—“They’re coming for you next.” Like a splinter in the base of his skull.

He hadn’t told Kang-hyuk. Not yet.

Kang-hyuk was already on edge, circling Min-soo like a wolf in a trap, and Jaewon knew if he told him about the call… he'd burn Seoul to the ground.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So he put on his smile, walked into trauma rounds, and kept his eyes down.

But something shifted when the new patient came in.

19-year-old male. Name: Han Il-sung. Found unconscious outside a private clinic. Missing a kidney.

Gyeong-Won read the chart out loud. “Vitals stable, but he’s post-op. The surgery was done less than twelve hours ago.”

Dong-Ju frowned. “There’s no record of transfer, no OR log. Who the hell cuts someone open and dumps them outside?”

“Someone who doesn’t want to get caught,” Jang-Mi muttered. She tilted the chart. “His blood type’s AB-negative. Super rare.”

Jaewon’s heart dropped.

That’s when he saw it—scribbled on the corner of the OR bandage in faint blue ink: #0429YJ

His own initials. His birthday.

“This isn’t random,” Jaewon whispered. “This kid… this is a message.”

Later that night, Kang-hyuk returned to the hospital's on-call room past midnight. His hands were scraped. Blood under his fingernails. He didn’t say where he’d been, but Jaewon could guess. He sat next to him on the couch and leaned his head on Jaewon’s shoulder, both of them too tired to pretend anymore.

“I can’t protect you from everything,” Kang-hyuk murmured. “Not from this.”

“I never asked you to,” Jaewon said softly. “Just don’t lie to me. If you’re going to go chasing after ghosts—take me with you.”

Kang-hyuk looked at him then, eyes full of something sharp and fragile all at once. “I’d burn this whole city if they touched you,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Jaewon nodded, but his throat was tight. Because he knew—that was exactly what scared him.

---

Three days later...

Jaewon disappeared.

No calls. No messages. No CCTV of him leaving the hospital. His locker was still full. His white coat hung on its usual hook.

All that remained was a file left open on his desk—a list of transplant cases with donor tags that matched none of the official registry IDs.

At the top of the file: 0429YJ.

Somewhere underground... 

Fluorescent lights buzzed. Surgical tools glinted.

Jaewon lay strapped to a gurney, still breathing—but barely. His lip was split. Dried blood crusted his temple. Electrodes dotted his chest.

Hong Min-soo stood over him, surgical gloves on, unhurried.

“I never liked messy jobs,” he said casually. “But you kept poking. Asking. Following.”

He lifted a scalpel. “You’re not here because I need you, Dr. Yang. You’re here because he needs you.”

Min-soo smiled. “And that makes you leverage.”

Chapter Text

Jaewon woke to light that stabbed like knives behind his eyelids. The air smelled like bleach and blood and something far colder—sterility, maybe. Or death.

The first thing he registered was that he couldn't move.

Restraints dug into his wrists, raw skin burning against the coarse fabric. His legs wouldn’t budge. A nasal cannula tickled the inside of his nose, dry air biting down his throat. He blinked against the brightness until shapes took form. Metal ceiling. Surgical lights. An IV dripping something too slow to be harmless.

And above it all—a silence that hummed.

Where am I?

He tried to think back. Last memory: leaving the hospital. A quiet night. He’d stayed late to check on Han Il-sung—the boy who showed up with one kidney and no answers. Kang-hyuk had texted: Come home soon. I miss you already.

And now… this.

Jaewon’s heart picked up pace, panic clawing its way up his throat.

The door creaked open.

Hong Min-soo entered like he owned the room, like he was walking into morning rounds with a clipboard and a plan. His lab coat was pressed. His gloves were already on.

“I hoped you’d wake before we started,” he said mildly, checking Jaewon’s vitals like this was just another consult. “It’s always better when the patient is lucid. Keeps the heart rate honest.”

Jaewon glared, jaw clenched. “What do you want?”

Min-soo tilted his head, lips twitching in something almost resembling sympathy.

“You were never supposed to get involved,” he said. “But you just kept… poking. Asking. Digging.”

Jaewon’s voice was hoarse. “You’re killing people.”

“I’m saving lives.” Min-soo leaned over, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Just not the ones you think deserve saving.”

He reached for a tray—surgical tools, gleaming and precise.

“You’re not here because I need your organs,” he continued. “You’re here because he needs you.”

Jaewon froze.

Min-soo’s smile grew colder. “You’ve become his weakness. And I plan to use that.”

Three days earlier...

It was supposed to be a normal shift.

The hospital had felt oddly quiet that evening, the kind of stillness that came before a storm. Jaewon signed off his last chart, said goodnight to the nurses, and took the back elevator out like always—habit, routine, privacy.

He didn’t even realize the floor number was wrong until the doors slid open into a hallway that didn’t belong.

Two men in scrubs. Too tall. Too clean. No badges.

“Wrong floor,” Jaewon said, instinctively stepping back.

One of them raised a hand. Something sharp glinted in his palm.

The needle hit before he could scream. Darkness swallowed him whole.

Now...

Jaewon just got his senses back; he fought against the restraints again, more out of fury than hope. But the leather held firm. Min-soo stepped closer with the scalpel.

“You think he’ll come for me,” Jaewon said, breathing hard.

Min-soo paused, as if considering it. “I know he will.”

“Then you’re the one making a mistake.”

The blade stopped inches from his skin.

“Am I?”

Jaewon met his eyes. “You have no idea what Kang-hyuk is capable of.”

Min-soo smiled again. “Oh, I do. That’s exactly why you’re here.”

---

The scalpel hovered just long enough to draw a shallow line across Jaewon’s collarbone—a warning, not yet a wound.

Then Min-soo pulled back and wiped the blade with surgical gauze, like he couldn’t bear to stain it improperly.

“This place used to mean something to me,” he said, looking around the dim, sterile room. The walls were white, the lighting harsh, like any number of auxiliary surgical bays buried deep beneath the hospital's main wings. “But hospitals—they’re just marketplaces with better lighting. You of all people should understand that now.”

Jaewon’s throat ached. His lips were cracked, jaw sore from clenching against the mounting panic. “You’re doing this inside the hospital?”

Min-soo turned to him slowly. “Where better? Clean records. Clean facilities. Clean bodies.”

His voice lowered, conversational, almost gentle. “You should’ve left it alone, Jaewon. All that digging into Han Il-sung’s file. The late-night chart pulls. The nurse you cornered in Radiology. You think no one was watching?”

“I was doing my job.”

Min-soo gave a half-smile, walking toward the wall to flip off the overhead lights. Jaewon winced—only one light remained, a focused surgical beam, bright and suffocating in the dark.

“No,” Min-soo said softly. “You were doing his job.”

He leaned in close enough that Jaewon could feel the heat of his breath. “I warned Kang-hyuk. Told him to stay out of my way after ITHACA. But you… You were the crack in the door.”

Jaewon glared at him, eyes raw. “He doesn’t even know I’m gone yet.”

Min-soo’s smile widened. “Oh, he does. You were supposed to scrub in for an emergency laparotomy thirty minutes ago. Guess who had to step in instead?”

Something inside Jaewon twisted. “If you lay a hand on anyone else—”

“Relax. I have no interest in harming your little trauma team. That would cause too much noise. I only need you.”

He walked toward the tray of instruments again. Jaewon strained against the restraints, but they didn’t budge. His wrists were bleeding now.

“Why?” he rasped. “What do you even want?”

Min-soo glanced back at him, suddenly cold again.

“Like I said,” he said, “You, are leverage.”

Trauma Ward–8th Floor

Kang-hyuk stormed through the hallway, surgical cap in hand, sweat clinging to the back of his neck.

“Where is he?” he barked at Dong-Ju, who met him halfway down the nurses' station corridor.

“We don’t know,” he said, breathless. “He signed off charts at 21:37, told Nurse Agnes he was heading home. But his badge never logged out. We checked the elevator logs—there’s a gap.”

“Security footage?”

“Feed was looped.”

That stopped Kang-hyuk cold.

He looked over at Gyeong-Won, who had just emerged from Radiology, phone in hand. “They scrubbed the hallway cams. But they missed the drug dispensary’s motion sensor. It picked up Jaewon heading toward the sub-level. After that? Nothing.”

Kang-hyuk’s stomach dropped.

He turned to the Chief Han. “Seal off the entire basement wing. Tell Security it’s a potential abduction.”

“You think someone took him inside the hospital?” Chief Han asked, stunned.

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. He already knew.

Sub-level Surgical Bay–Time Unknown

Jaewon coughed. The air was stale, tinged with disinfectant, and something rusted.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered.

Min-soo walked around him, slowly.

“You don’t understand what we’re building,” he said. “The transplant list is broken. The system is broken. This—what I’m doing—it’s mercy.”

“You’re taking children.”

“I’m saving children. The ones who can pay.”

Jaewon blinked hard, rage and despair colliding in his chest. “And the ones who can’t?”

Min-soo finally stopped walking. He leaned in, face inches from Jaewon’s.

“They disappear.”

---

After hours of searching, they finally found Jaewon's whereabouts; he was at the sub-level surgical bay. The door crashed open with a metallic screech, slamming against the wall. Kang-hyuk didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in seconds, eyes scanning, heart beating like a war drum.

There.

Jaewon—restrained to a surgical table, wrists raw, an IV half-ripped from his arm. The overhead light made his skin look bloodless. He wasn’t moving.

“Jaewon—!”

A figure stepped into view from behind the partition—Hong Min-soo, scalpel still in gloved hand, calm as ever.

Kang-hyuk’s vision went red. “Step away from him,” he growled.

Min-soo tilted his head, unnervingly unbothered. “You're early.”

“I said—step. Back.”

“Or what?” Min-soo asked. “You’ll kill me? Right here, in the hospital you swore to protect? The irony writes itself.”

Kang-hyuk moved forward anyway, fast.

Min-soo slashed with the scalpel—Kang-hyuk ducked, disarmed him in one brutal twist of his wrist. The scalpel clattered to the floor, spinning under the tray stand.

They struggled, crashing into equipment, metal trays falling like thunder.

Jaewon stirred, head lolling. His eyes blinked open—hazy, then wide in horror.

“Prof—Professor—!”

Kang-hyuk elbowed Min-soo in the ribs, enough to knock the wind from him. Then he turned, rushing to Jaewon’s side.

“I’ve got you. It’s okay, I’m here—Jaewon, look at me.”

Jaewon let out a broken sound—half sob, half relief. “Thought—thought you wouldn’t find me—”

“Always,” Kang-hyuk said hoarsely. “I’ll always find you.”

Min-soo rose again behind them.

But the door slammed open a second time.

Jang-Mi. Gyeong-Won. Dong-Ju. Hospital security.

“DROP IT!” Jang-Mi shouted, gun pointed at Min-soo.

Min-soo raised his hands slowly, bloody glove still clinging to one.

“Too late,” he said quietly. “You have no idea how deep this goes.”

---

Hours have passed since Jaewon was found at the sub-level surgical bay. Jaewon lay under warm blankets, IV reinserted properly now, oxygen cannula gone. His wrists were bandaged. The heart monitor beside him beeped with a steady rhythm.

Kang-hyuk sat at his bedside, fingers laced with Jaewon’s, thumb brushing gently across the bruises. He hadn’t let go since they’d pulled Jaewon out.

“You didn’t come alone,” Jaewon murmured, voice hoarse.

Kang-hyuk looked up. “You think I’d face him without backup? You know me better than that.”

“I was scared,” Jaewon admitted, eyes glimmering.

“I wasn’t,” Kang-hyuk whispered. “I knew you’d fight. I just had to get to you in time.”

A beat passed.

Then Jaewon reached over, grabbing Kang-hyuk’s hand tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making myself a target. For being reckless.” Kang-hyuk shook his head. He leaned in, his forehead pressing lightly to Jaewon’s. “Don’t. You followed your instincts. You were right. We were all too blind.”

Soft silence. Then, “Don’t leave,” Jaewon said quietly.

Kang-hyuk’s voice broke a little. “Never.”

They remained the same. Kang-hyuk slowly slid himself beside Jaewon, arms embracing Jaewon. Jaewon felt safe, instinctively, he curled up to Kang-hyuk, letting him caress him softly. A soft sigh was made by him, "Thank you..." 

Kang-hyuk pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, "I love you..."

---

Hong Min-soo was gone. Disappeared during his hospital transfer. A guard was found unconscious, badge missing. The police called it an internal betrayal. The hospital tried to bury it. But Kang-hyuk, Jaewon, and the trauma team knew better.

They’d seen the list. Names. Patients. Missing organs. Trafficked for money, power, survival.

This wasn’t over.

A dark room. Somewhere overseas

Hong Min-soo stepped into view, alive, dressed in civilian clothes. A new identity.

He lit a cigarette, staring at an X-ray pinned to a lightboard—Jaewon’s chest scan.

Off-screen, a voice asked, “He’s still alive?”

Min-soo smiled. Cold. “Barely. Let’s fix that.”

---

Trauma Team Briefing Room–36 Hours Later

"Twenty-three." Jang-Mi dropped a folder full of stolen files on the table like it was a death sentence. "Twenty-three patients discharged under Min-soo’s name. All late-night surgeries. No follow-up records. Most had abdominal trauma. No scans. No insurance logs. Nothing."

Gyeong-Won leaned back in his chair, as if distance might help him process the nausea coiling in his gut. “That’s... organ harvesting.”

“No,” Dong-Ju said flatly. “That’s a body count.”

Silence fell over the room.

Then the door opened.

Jaewon stood there, still pale, a fresh bandage peeking out beneath the collar of his sweater. He looked exhausted. Haunted. But he walked in anyway, shoulders set.

“They weren’t random,” he said quietly. “Min-soo said he was ‘saving lives.’ But not the ones we thought deserved saving.”

Kang-hyuk stepped up behind him, hovering protectively but letting Jaewon speak.

“He’s not working alone,” Jaewon added. “He was talking to someone. Gave orders.”

Jang-Mi crossed her arms. “You think this is a trafficking ring?”

“I think it’s a market,” Jaewon said, voice cracking. “And we’re the supply.”

Jaewon couldn't bear it anymore. He walked out of the room, sensing this nauseating feeling coming to him. Just talking about Min-soo made him sick. He decided to go to the rooftop and find some fresh air. 

The city spread out below them in fractured light. Cold wind tugged at Jaewon’s hoodie—Kang-hyuk’s hoodie, really—but he barely felt it. He sat on the ledge like he didn’t care how far he could fall.

Kang-hyuk joined him quietly. Sat beside him without a word.

“I should’ve listened to you,” Jaewon said after a long while. “I kept pushing, even when you told me to stop.”

“I would’ve done the same,” Kang-hyuk murmured. “But watching you disappear—I...” He swallowed. “I couldn’t breathe without you.”

Jaewon looked down at his hands. “Min-soo said I was your weakness.”

“You’re not.”

“He said he took me because he knew it would hurt you. That it would break you.”

Kang-hyuk turned, eyes burning. “You’re not my weakness. You’re the reason I fight. And if that makes me vulnerable, then fine. I’d rather be broken than lose you.”

They sat in silence. Then, without looking, Jaewon slid his hand into Kang-hyuk’s. “You didn’t lose me.”

---

FLASHBACK–Two Years Ago, Busan General

A nine-year-old boy on the operating table. Liver failure. No donor match. Parents poor, out of options. A surgeon speaks in whispers. “There’s a way. But don’t ask where it comes from.”

Min-soo agrees.

The boy survives. And something inside Min-soo breaks open. Or maybe—it calcifies. Justifies itself.

One life saved. Then another. Then another. And soon, there’s no turning back.

FLASHBACK ENDS

---

Unknown Location – Surveillance Feed

Multiple monitors flickered to life. One displayed the trauma team. Another: Jaewon’s hospital room. Kang-hyuk was asleep in the chair beside him, fingers still wrapped around Jaewon’s.

Min-soo’s voice echoed in the dark. “Emotional liabilities. That’s where they all break.”

A second figure stepped into frame, face unseen. “You said we could use the doctor. Is he still compliant?”

Min-soo’s face didn’t change. “He doesn’t need to be. I have leverage.”

The man turned toward the camera. “Then begin Phase Two.”

---

It's been weeks since Jaewon got discharged and has been operating again. Jaewon was in the middle of operating an appendectomy, the surgery had gone well—textbook, almost—but Jaewon couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Not enough to be visible to the others, maybe. But he felt it. A ghosting tremble just beneath his skin, like the body remembered more than the mind would admit.

He stared at his fingers under the scrub sink, soap suds swirling in red-tinged water. Had he nicked himself? Or was it phantom blood, from nights he couldn’t forget?

Behind him, the door opened.

“Jaewon.”

Kang-hyuk. Soft voice. Careful steps. Jaewon didn’t turn around. “It was just an appendectomy,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ve done a hundred of them.”

“I know.”

Jaewon scrubbed harder. His wrists ached. The scars from the restraints were fading, but they burned like accusations.

“I shouldn’t be in the OR yet.”

“You were fine.”

“I was slow. I hesitated.” He met Kang-hyuk’s eyes in the mirror. “What if it had been something worse?”

Kang-hyuk stepped closer, reaching for the towel. He dried Jaewon’s hands gently, as if they were glass.

“You’re healing. You’re allowed to hesitate.”

“I can’t afford to. Not in there.”

Kang-hyuk folded the towel, pressed it into Jaewon’s palm. “Then we’ll train. Practice. You’re not alone in this.”

A beat passed. Then another. Jaewon’s voice cracked.

“I keep hearing him. Min-soo. Every time I close my eyes. I still smell the bleach, the blood. I—I can feel the scalpel on my skin.”

Kang-hyuk’s arms closed around him, grounding, firm. “You’re safe now. He’s not going to touch you again.”

“But what if he does? What if he finds another way?”

Kang-hyuk’s jaw clenched. “Then he’ll deal with me.”

Suddenly, they heard the hospital speaker announcing something, "Patient 6745 is missing! All Doctors and Staff, please inform the Trauma Unit if you find this patient ID!.” Jang-Mi's voice was like a blade. Jaewon and Kang-hyuk immediately left the OR Observation room and ran to the Trauma Unit.

BRAK!

"Jang-Mi! What do you mean missing?!" Kang-hyuk barked as soon as he entered the Trauma Center.

Dong-Ju and Gyeonng-Won also just arrived. “What do you mean gone?” Dongju asked.

“I mean, she was prepped for her gallbladder surgery this morning, sedated—and now she’s not in her room. There’s no record of her transfer. The CCTV feed from her hallway? Wiped. Clean.”

Silence. Then chaos.

“Get security on the line,” Gyeong-Won barked. “Check every OR, every elevator feed, staff rosters—”

“No.” Jaewon's voice cut through. “This was internal. Only someone from the surgical staff could have signed off on her sedation.”

Gyeong-Won's face paled. “You think there’s a mole?”

“I think there’s a monster in our hospital.”

Two Days Later

Jaewon’s legs burned. His grip on the handrail was white-knuckled. But he kept walking. One foot. Then another.

“Slow down,” the therapist cautioned. But Jaewon didn’t stop. Couldn’t. If he stopped, he’d remember the cold metal under his back. The surgical light. Min-soo’s voice saying he’d make Kang-hyuk bleed. He stumbled. Fell.

A sharp inhale. Then hands were on him. Kang-hyuk. Always him.

“I’m fine,” Jaewon gasped.

“You’re not.”

“I have to keep moving—”

“No, you don’t.” Kang-hyuk was on his knees beside him, arms bracing his shoulders. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I’m scared,” Jaewon whispered. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there.”

“I know.” Kang-hyuk pulled him in, pressed his forehead to Jaewon’s. “But I’m here. And I’m not letting you go.”

---

That Night, the whole Trauma team was gathered at the Break Room.  A file and tablet sat on the table. Dong-Ju’s face was tight. “It’s him,” he said. “I found the buyer.”

Everyone went still.

“Anton Yeung.”

It hung in the air of the trauma team's conference room, spoken first by Jang-mi in a whisper that couldn’t hide its weight. Gyeong-Won was the one who brought the tablet forward, eyes bloodshot, knuckles white. The others leaned in slowly—Jaewon sitting on the edge of the table, Kang-hyuk standing with arms crossed by the window, his jaw tightening more with every breath.

“CEO of Vireon Biotech,” Gyeong-Won said, sliding the screen across. “Medical technology giant. Pioneers in regenerative tissue, biotech robotics, surgical AI… and now, it looks like, black market organs.”

The screen showed a crisp headshot of Anton Yeung—silver hair, tailored suit, smile like a scalpel. He looked like the kind of man who could sell you a miracle while holding a knife behind his back.

“How deep?” Kang-hyuk finally asked, his voice hoarse.

Dong-Ju answered. “Deep. Offshore accounts, ghost facilities in Busan and Jeju, and—” he hesitated— “one shipment left from the port the same night Jaewon disappeared.”

Silence.

Jaewon didn’t move, didn’t blink. The burn on his wrist from the restraints had only just begun to heal, his voice was still raw from the days locked in that warehouse. But he was here. He stayed present. Because this mattered.

“We’re not just up against a criminal network,” Jang-Mi whispered. “We’re up against someone protected by corporations, politicians, investors...”

“And medicine,” Jaewon added quietly. “He’s hiding in plain sight. Under the guise of saving lives.”

Kang-hyuk turned his head sharply at that. Their eyes met for a second too long.

There it was again—that undercurrent. The tether neither of them acknowledged directly, but both clung to when the nights got long and the guilt too loud. The way Jaewon said things that slipped beneath Kang-hyuk’s armor. The way Kanghyuk was always watching, always calculating how to protect what mattered. Who mattered.

They dug deeper and deeper and deeper...

The days bled together—autopsy reports, surveillance images, shipping manifests. Every new lead took them closer to the edge.

Vireon had a new project launching. Publicly, it was a transplant technology trial with global partners. Privately… the list of patients getting priority access didn’t match any donor records. Not even legal ones.

Then came the whistleblower.

A nurse. Former Vireon facility. She met Kang-hyuk and Jaewon late one night, in a parking lot under the neon flicker of a fried security light. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks.

“There were bodies,” she said. “Hooked up to machines. Kept alive, barely. Some weren’t even registered. We were told not to ask. That they were volunteers from death row, from overseas… but I saw a boy. Fifteen. He asked me to call his mother.”

Jaewon flinched. Kang-hyuk stepped in, slow, controlled. “Where is the facility?”

“They moved it. After one of the buyers got spooked. But I… I kept this.” She handed Jaewon a flash drive with trembling fingers. “Please—do something.”

Back at the hospital

The weight of it began to crack the air. Tension seeped into the trauma bay. Gyeong-Won snapped at an intern. Jang-Mi stopped humming under her breath. Dong-Ju stayed late, too late, scrolling maps and trying not to cry at his desk.

Kang-hyuk stood like a wall between them and the fallout. The protector. Always.

And Jaewon? He started watching Kang-hyuk the way a survivor watches a fault line.

“You’re taking it all in again,” he said one night, catching Kang-hyuk alone in the on-call room.

Kang-hyuk didn’t look at him. Just scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Someone has to.”

“You’ll burn out before this ends.”

Silence.

Then Kanghyuk turned, eyes shadowed but searching. “You shouldn’t have gotten dragged into this. I should’ve kept you out—”

“Stop,” Jaewon cut him off, voice sharp. “You don’t get to do that. Not now. Not after what we’ve been through.”

His voice trembled on the last word. So did Kang-hyuk’s breath.

“You came for me,” Jaewon said. “You crossed a line for me.”

“I would again.”

“I know.”

They stood inches apart. The air charged. Not quite a confession. Not quite silence.

A slow war was being fought in both of them. Not just against Anton Yeung. But against time. Fear. Longing buried beneath trauma and duty.

They didn’t move closer. Not yet. But they didn’t step back either.

And elsewhere…

Anton Yeung received the encrypted photo on his private phone: Kang-hyuk and Jaewon, side by side in front of a hospital entrance. A shadowed figure across the street had taken it.

He studied the image, then flicked ash from his cigarette onto the balcony of his penthouse.

“Dr. Kang,” he murmured. “And Dr. Yang.”

He turned to his assistant.

“They’re getting too close. Time to remind them what’s at stake.”

Chapter Text

The trauma team didn’t sleep.

Jaewon barely blinked, his eyes locked on his laptop, sorting corrupted files from the flash drive.

Gyeong-Won had contacted a journalist he once saved during a car crash—a woman with no fear and a reputation for blowing open corporate secrets. Dong-Ju and Jang-Mi were scanning through missing person reports that matched the buyer list, cross-referencing blood types, scars, anything.

And Kang-hyuk? He moved between them like a ghost. Silent. Alert. Watching.

When the journalist finally met them in person, it was at a ramen shop in Mapo-gu, at 2 a.m. She wore a Yankees cap and smelled like printer ink and rage. “You’re going to want to lawyer up,” she said first. “Yeung has fingers in every pie from Seoul to Geneva. But this?” She tapped the photo of one of the facility rooms—a child intubated, a scar down his torso. “This is war. And I like wars.”

Kang-hyuk passed her the drive. “Then let’s start one.”

A week later, the first story dropped. Not a full exposé, but enough to shake the tree, “Biotech Giant Accused of Unauthorized Transplant Trials.” Vireon issued a flat denial.

The Ministry of Health claimed to be “reviewing protocol.” Then came the first hit; Jang-Mi’s car caught fire. She wasn’t in it—luck, pure and simple—but the message was clear. Back off.

The security footage was gone, wiped clean. Kang-hyuk paced the hospital hallway that night like a caged animal. When Jaewon approached him, he could almost see the weight cracking his shoulders. “I should’ve seen it coming,” Kang-hyuk muttered. “He’s targeting the team.”

“And next it’ll be Dong-Ju or Gyeong-Won or—me?” Kang-hyuk’s voice dropped. “I won’t let that happen.”

“You can’t carry all of us.”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t,” Jaewon said. Then, quieter, “Let me carry you for once.” It wasn’t a romantic line. Not exactly. It was a plea. A scarred man asking another to let down his weapon.

Just for a second. Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. But he didn’t walk away either.

---

That night, the hospital issued emergency security measures. Anyone involved in the case was moved to the top floor. Temporary rooms were provided, and constant surveillance was conducted. For some reason, Jaewon and Kang-hyuk were assigned to the same room.

“They’re calling it a logistics error,” Jaewon said with a smirk. Kang-hyuk didn’t react. He just laid down on the cot, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

“Want me to request a transfer?” Jaewon asked, tone teasing but tentative.

“No,” Kang-hyuk said. “You stay.” Silence stretched. Then Jaewon sat on the edge of the cot, looking at the outline of Kang-hyuk’s body in the dark. “You haven’t slept properly in days.”

“I can’t.”

“Nightmares?”

“Reality.” Jaewon hesitated—then did something unthinkable; he reached out and took Kanghyuk’s hand. Not tight. Just there. A human thing. Fragile. Brave. Kang-hyuk didn’t move. But his fingers curled, barely, around Jaewon’s.

Their eyes met, there was a soft smile made by Kang-hyuk, but Jaewon knew well that it was all just a mask; he tightened his grip on his hands, "You don't have to pretend everything is fine, Hyung..." his eyes were soft, yet it felt like agony to Kang-hyuk. He knew what Jaewon meant, but all he could do was just smile at him.

Slowly, his hand cupped and caressed his cheek, "Everything will be fine..."

---

Elsewhere, Anton Yeung watched the second article drop. This one named one of the patients: a whistleblower from a failed Vireon trial who had gone “missing.”

The name matched one of the facility photos.

He exhaled through his nose. “Enough.”

He turned to his assistant. “Contact Sangho.”

Sangho. Military dropout. Mercenary. Ghost on payrolls across the globe.

“Tell him we need someone inside the hospital. Close. Close enough to shut it all down if I say so.”

The trauma team didn’t know it yet, but the real war was beginning. That night, someone broke into the surgical records database.

The next morning, Gyeong-Won found his locker pried open. Inside, a photo of his mother—her oxygen mask duct-taped to her face—sat on top of his scrubs. No note. Just the message. The team went into lockdown.

And Kang-hyuk? He stood at the window again, watching the city turn grey under stormlight. “Anton’s going to bleed us out one by one,” he whispered.

Jaewon came to stand beside him. Close. Too close. “Then we bleed together.”

---

The lockdown felt like a noose.

Hospital corridors were emptied by order. Nurses whispered behind closed doors. Security guards roamed the floors, not knowing half the danger they were meant to keep out. Even the sound of overhead announcements seemed quieter now—muffled, like the building itself knew it was under siege.

Inside their shared room, Kang-hyuk stood with his back to Jaewon, gaze fixed on the skyline blurred by rain.

“I used to think war had an end,” he said quietly. “That if you made it out alive, you’d earned peace. But this... this doesn’t stop.”

Jaewon stepped closer, his voice low. “Maybe peace isn’t something we wait for. Maybe it’s something we make. One room. One patient. One truth at a time.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer, but Jaewon saw the tension in his shoulders soften—just slightly.

Then, a knock. Not sharp. Not urgent. Just... wrong.

Both men froze. Kang-hyuk crossed the room in two strides, checked the peephole—no one. But taped to the outside: a flash drive. Red casing. No label. He took it. Plugged it into Jaewon’s laptop with careful fingers.

The screen lit up.

A video. Grainy, timestamped from two nights ago. It showed the ICU—Room 304. A nurse walked in, checked vitals, and adjusted the IV bag. Nothing unusual. But then—she moved to the bed, and the patient inside turned their head. Not sedated. Eyes open. Terrified.

The nurse leaned in. And whispered something. There was no audio. But Jaewon, breath held, zoomed in. Lips. He read them. “Tell them, and we'll finish your sister.”

Then the feed cut to black. Jaewon slammed the laptop shut. “They’ve got staff. Inside.”

Kang-hyuk’s jaw clenched. “They’re silencing patients. Witnesses.”

“And we just announced ourselves to the world.”

He didn’t have to say it, they were targets now.

Elsewhere, Anton Yeung poured a glass of whiskey. Unshaken. Not surprised. Just calculating.

“Move Sangho in,” he said. “Under guise of security reinforcement. I want eyes on every room, every shift change, every computer. If they think they’ve started a war—”

He raised his glass toward the screen, where a still image of Jaewon and Kang-hyuk filled the feed, caught mid-silence in their hospital room. “—They don’t know what war looks like.”

---

Back at the hospital, Jang-Mi refused to go home.

The fire hadn’t scared her. But the silence afterward had. The way no one in the security office blinked when she asked for footage. The way the guard stammered, then said, “There must’ve been a technical failure.”

She sat with Dong-Ju and Gyeong-Won in the staff lounge, eyes bloodshot from reading missing persons reports.

“There’s no pattern,” she whispered. “No connection between donors. Some are young. Some old. One was a school principal. One worked at a fish market. How do you make sense of that?”

Dong-Ju was quiet. Then, “What if that’s the pattern? No pattern means no suspicion.”

Gyeong-Won looked up from his phone. “I checked. That photo they left in my locker? It’s not a recent picture. It was taken when she was hospitalized two years ago.”

“They’re digging,” Dong-Ju muttered. “Deep.”

Gyeong-Won’s voice was steel. “Then let them dig. I’m not backing down.”

Later that night, Kang-hyuk sat on the cot, elbows on knees, watching Jaewon type. “You’re not sleeping either,” he said.

Jaewon didn’t look up. “Didn’t feel like dreaming about duct-taped oxygen masks.”

There was a long silence. Then Kang-hyuk said, “When this ends—if it ends—I want to leave this place. Just for a while.”

Jaewon turned to him, finally. “Where would you go?”

Kang-hyuk looked down at his hands. “Doesn’t matter. Just... somewhere I don’t feel like a loaded gun.”

The words hung in the air between them—aching, fragile. Jaewon’s voice was quiet. “Then take me with you.” He said it like a promise.

---

The next morning broke slow and grey, stormclouds pooling like bruises over the Seoul skyline.

The trauma team had barely moved from their posts. Security guards were now stationed outside every door, but they felt more like shadows than shields. Ever since the video appeared, trust had become currency no one could afford to spend. Even the nurses tread carefully, eyes darting to corners, phones never out of reach.

Inside Room 817, Jaewon woke first.

Kang-hyuk was still asleep. Or trying. His eyes were closed, jaw locked, hand still loosely curled where Jaewon had held it through most of the night. There was something in that—the way he hadn’t pulled away. The way he’d stayed, body tense but present.

Jaewon exhaled quietly. He reached over and brushed a piece of hair from Kang-hyuk’s forehead. The man didn’t stir, but the smallest muscle in his jaw twitched like he was biting down on grief. There was no peace here. But maybe there was still grace.

Somewhere on the lower floor, Sangho walked the halls in a security vest.

He was taller than most, broad-shouldered, hair buzzed short. Nothing about him stood out—intentionally. The ID on his chest read “Nam Do-hyun.” The badge scanned. No one questioned it.

His first stop was the nurses' hub. He smiled politely. Introduced himself as part of a Ministry-mandated reinforcement team. Routine surveillance, he said. Just in case.

The head nurse nodded, too tired to argue. He waited until they looked away. Then slipped a small USB into the main terminal.

Upstairs, Jang-Mi was pacing the staff lounge. Dong-Ju was on a call with an NGO that had offered to help them go public with more whistleblower data. Gyeong-Won was scanning the surgical roster.

Something was off.

“I haven’t seen Min-soo all day,” Jang-Mi said.

Dong-Ju nodded. “He’s not answering texts. Not on shift. And his ID hasn’t scanned in since last night.”

Gyeong-Won’s eyes narrowed. “Think he ran?”

Jang-Mi’s hands curled into fists. “Or he’s hiding something.”

Then her phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER
1 New Voicemail.

She pressed play. The voice was distorted. Digitized. “Too late. You chose your side. We’ll take the rest.” Then silence. They froze.

Gyeong-Won grabbed his bag. “We need to find Jaewon and Kang-hyuk.”

At that exact moment, alarms blared across the upper floor.

Jaewon jumped from the chair. Kang-hyuk was already up, fully alert, hand reaching for the emergency baton in the drawer like muscle memory. The intercom crackled overhead.

“Security breach. Unauthorized access. Floor 8. All medical personnel, initiate lockdown protocol.”

A nurse burst in, wild-eyed. “It’s the surgical records database—someone triggered an override from a lower floor.”

Kang-hyuk’s body went cold. “Where’s the source?”

“They think... they think it’s coming from within the security system.”

Jaewon grabbed his laptop, fingers flying across keys. “If they’ve hacked into internal networks, they can erase everything—logs, patient files, transplant evidence—”

A loud bang cut through the air.

Something exploded.

---

Smoke filled the east corridor. Fire doors slammed down. Screams echoed in the stairwell. Dong-Ju and Jang-Mi emerged from the elevator just in time to see a figure in black vanish down the hallway.

“Hey!” Dong-Ju shouted. He gave chase without thinking. Jang-Mi pulled the fire extinguisher from the wall and followed.

The figure ducked into the surgical wing.

Gyeong-Won appeared from the other end. “Cut them off!”

But they were too late. The intruder vanished behind a coded door—locked from inside.

Kang-hyuk appeared seconds later, eyes burning. “Move.” He stepped forward and kicked the lock. Once. Twice.

CRACK.

The door burst inward. But the room was empty. No sign of the man. Just a terminal blinking red. Files were already being deleted.

Jaewon shoved past him and dropped to the desk. “I can stall it. I can—I can stall it—” His hands were shaking. The footage, the testimonies, the whistleblower records—all disappearing byte by byte.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on, don’t go—”

Kang-hyuk crouched beside him, gripping his shoulder.

Jaewon’s voice broke. “If we lose this—”

“We won’t,” Kang-hyuk said. His voice was firm. Unshaken. “You’ve got this.”

After twenty agonizing minutes, Jaewon slammed his hands down. “I isolated it. Encrypted copies are safe. They didn’t wipe everything.”

Gyeong-Won let out a breath. “Holy shit.”

Jang-Mi leaned against the wall, still gripping the extinguisher. “Then we push harder. We go public. Names. Faces. Everything.”

Kang-hyuk nodded. “We’ll hit them before they hit us again.”

But Jaewon was staring at the recovered files. His face had gone pale. “There’s something new,” he whispered. “Look.” He opened a decrypted folder. Inside: lab reports. Photos of children. Scar maps. Signatures. And one name, Hong Min-soo.

Kang-hyuk stilled. “...What?”

Jaewon clicked deeper. Donor records. Illegal surgeries. A photo of a patient—six years old, organ mismatch, rejected transplant.

“Min-soo approved it,” Jaewon whispered. “He falsified bloodwork. The kid died a week later.”

Silence fell like an avalanche.

No one moved.

Jang-Mi spoke first, hollow, “He was one of us.”

“Not anymore,” Kang-hyuk said. “Where is he now?”

---

It didn't take them long to find Min-soo; they found him hours later. Hong Min-soo was at the old lecture hall, packing documents into a case. He looked up and didn’t flinch. “You were never supposed to see that,” he said.

Kang-hyuk stepped forward, fists clenched. “How long?”

Min-soo’s face cracked—not guilty, not regretful. Just tired. “Long enough.”

“Why?” Jaewon asked, voice shaking. “You were family.”

“Because family doesn’t pay the bills,” Min-soo spat. “Because saving one kid doesn’t matter when a system demands sacrifices.”

“You let children die.”

“I gave them purpose. Their organs saved the rich. The powerful. The ones who change the world.”

“You’re insane,” Jang-Mi hissed.

But Kang-hyuk was calm.

Cold.

“Min-soo. You're done.”

Min-soo laughed. “You think Yeung will let me rot in prison? He’ll erase me like a typo.”

“No,” Kang-hyuk said. “We’re going to make you loud.”

---

Three days later, the full exposé dropped. The journalist’s voice echoed across Korea. Names. Photos. Receipts. Min-soo’s confession. Whistleblower files. Corrupt Ministry officials. Patient lists. Everything.

“Black Organs: The Biotech Pipeline of Death.” The fallout was instant. Vireon’s stocks collapsed. Investigations opened. Protestors gathered outside the hospital. Anton Yeung vanished. Sangho’s name never came up in the media.

But Kang-hyuk knew. He stood at the hospital rooftop days later, wind in his coat, jaw tight. Jaewon came up beside him. Quiet. Always just close enough to touch, never asking.

“He’ll try again,” Kang-hyuk murmured. “Different country. Different pipeline.”

"Then we let them deal with him.”

“You’re not scared if he comes back and comes after us?”

Jaewon shook his head. “I am.” Pause. “But I’m not alone.” Jaewon turns his head to him, there was a faint smile shown, "I have you, Hyung..."

Kang-hyuk turned to him. And for once—once—he let himself break. Shoulders dropped. Chin fell. A breath left him like surrender. Jaewon stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. No hesitation. Just warmth, steady and real. And Kang-hyuk held on.

---

The trauma team didn’t win a war. But they survived one.

Jang-Mi got a call from the Ministry—an official apology. She hung up halfway through it.

Dong-Ju wrote a medical ethics op-ed that went viral.

Gyeong-Won took his mother out of the city. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.

Jaewon kept a copy of the files on three separate drives. Just in case.

And Kang-hyuk? He stayed. With Jaewon. For now.

Chapter Text

Trauma Center Unit

For once, the trauma bay was quiet.

No screaming patients. No red alerts blinking on every monitor. No clatter of gurney wheels skidding across tile. No code blues echoing through the halls like a war cry. No blood. No tear gas. No enemy at the gate.

Just the faint, steady hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional buzz from the vending machine in the hallway. Peace. Strange, unfamiliar peace. Almost unnatural in its silence.

The staff lounge, usually a flurry of exhausted laughter, paperwork, and cold dinners reheated three times, was now a sanctuary for the walking wounded. Not in body—but in spirit. They sat scattered across the room like dominoes that had finally tipped after standing too long. Not collapsed… but leaning.

Jang-Mi was curled up on the corner armchair, her usually bright eyes dulled behind her glasses as she scrolled through her phone. But her finger paused every few seconds, hovering above the screen, like she kept forgetting what she was even looking for. Her free hand gripped a mug of now-cold coffee. She hadn’t taken a sip.

Dong-Ju had his legs thrown over the couch arm, snoring softly, lips slightly parted. He hadn't even taken his shoes off. No one dared wake him. They all needed sleep, but he needed escape.

Across from him, Gyeong-Won was slouched at the coffee table, pen in hand, doodling idly on the back of a patient chart. Every so often, he stopped to sip his instant coffee—then made a face like he'd just swallowed bitter regret. Still, he didn’t stop drinking it. On the paper in front of him, a little cartoon bunny in a lab coat held a scalpel and wore a tired, manic grin.

Near the window, Jaewon sat on the edge of a couch cushion, both hands wrapped around his cup like it might anchor him to the moment. The dark circles under his eyes hadn’t faded. His fingers bore faint marks from where tape and gauze had been wrapped too tightly, too long. His body had been stitched and re-stitched, but the wounds inside him still ached in ways no surgeon could touch.

Beside him—close, but not too close—Kang-hyuk sat. Shoulders squared, back straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. He stared ahead in silence, jaw tight. The only sign of the war inside him was the way his thumb absently tapped his thigh in perfect, subconscious rhythm—like a soldier trained to march, even when standing still.

Their knees brushed. Barely. Just a fraction of contact. But it was enough.

Neither moved away.

It had only been a month since they turned in Hong Min-soo.

A month since the operating room fell quiet, after hours of battle against a blade that had nearly cost the Trauma Team's life.

A month since Min-soo disappeared into whatever dark place cowardice hides in.

The trauma team had saved lives before. They had braved collapsing buildings, biohazards, warzones, and corruption.

But this? This was the first time they’d survived themselves.

So now, they sat. Not laughing. Not healing. Just… breathing.

And then—The door burst open with all the subtlety of a defibrillator shock, and Chief Han strolled in like he was about to announce a national holiday.

He wore a white button-up rolled at the sleeves, dark sunglasses perched unnecessarily on his head despite the lack of sun. In his hand was a folder. Under his arm was a bag of hot pastries. On his face? A grin so wide it was immediately suspicious.

“Rise and shine, children,” he declared.

Nobody moved.

“Get your bags packed.”

Still no movement.

He paused. Took off his sunglasses. Looked around the room like a disappointed principal. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Jang-Mi squinted up at him. “...What?”

“I said pack your damn bags. You’re all going on vacation.”

“…Vacation?” Jaewon echoed, blinking like the word physically didn’t compute in his brain.

“Yes. A vacation. You know—sun, sand, alcohol, fresh air, hammocks, preferably none of you performing field surgery with chopsticks for once in your lives.”

Gyeong-Won leaned back in his seat. “Is this some kind of elaborate hallucination? Did I finally die from hospital coffee poisoning?”

Chief Han tossed a folder on the table. Inside: printed ferry tickets. Beach house confirmation. Four-day leave slips with all their names, signed and stamped.

“Jeju Island,” he said. “Four days. A beach house that doesn’t smell like antiseptic. A full fridge. A rooftop deck. And I swear to God, if anyone so much as mentions the word ‘organ trafficking,’ I will drown them in the hot tub.”

“…You mean like, a forced group therapy session?” Gyeong-Won asked, eyes narrowed.

“Exactly,” Han said proudly, “but with better scenery.”

Dong-Ju stirred. “Isn’t that technically emotional coercion?”

Chief Han shrugged. “File a complaint. After Jeju.”

“Chief,” Jaewon started, brows furrowed, “we still have pending consults, post-ops—”

“Taken care of. You’ve all got backup for the week. The board signed off on it unanimously. In fact, they were the ones who suggested it after I told them what we’ve been through.” He paused, suddenly quieter. “You need to rest. All of you. No exceptions.”

There was a silence that wasn’t awkward. Just… heavy.

Chief Han softened. “Look. I know some of you don’t know how to relax. Frankly, I’m not sure you’re even capable of it anymore. But this is doctor’s orders. Mine.”

He glanced at Kang-hyuk. The man hadn’t spoken. But he wasn’t protesting either. His eyes flicked toward Jaewon—subtle. Protective. Still watching, even now.

Han noticed. He smiled faintly.

“Four days. That’s all I’m asking. Go breathe. Go laugh. Go fight over who gets the best bed. Hell, go kiss under the stars. I don’t care. Just—go be alive.”

For a long moment, no one moved.

And then, quietly—Jang-Mi lifted her hand.

“…Can we bring snacks?”

Chief Han grinned. “You can bring the entire vending machine.”

---

Jeju Trip Day 1

The trauma team? Nowhere near ready.

It started with an alarm that didn’t ring.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU WAKE ME UP?!” Dong-Ju screamed, flailing out of bed and nearly tripping over his own duffel bag. The clock read 05:17. The ferry left in exactly 43 minutes.

“I did!” Jang-Mi yelled from her room down the hall, already halfway dressed, a hair curler still tangled in her bangs. “You just told me to shut up and went back to sleep!”

“I THOUGHT IT WAS A NIGHTMARE!”

Meanwhile, Gyeong-Won was brushing his teeth while watching a TikTok about proper neck alignment during sleep. He had slept like a baby. Packed the night before. Had breakfast. Already ordered his cold brew. The only reason he hadn’t left yet was the free entertainment.

“I give them ten minutes before they start blaming me,” he said to himself calmly as he rinsed his mouth and admired his perfectly packed bag by the door.

Back at Dong-Ju’s apartment, the chaos had escalated.

“I CAN’T FIND MY PASSPORT!” Jang-Mi cried, diving under the couch.

“You don’t need a passport to go to Jeju!” Dong-Ju shouted back.

“I KNOW! BUT I LIKE TO BRING IT IN CASE OF INTERNATIONAL EMERGENCY!”

Somewhere between Jang-Mi trying to fit her fourth pair of shoes into an already bursting duffel and Dong-Ju yelling about how sunscreen “counts as carry-on liquid,” time slipped through their fingers like sand.

At 05:36, they stormed out the door, barely managing to hail a cab as Jang-Mi threw her bags in with the grace of a rugby player mid-match. Dong-Ju flopped in after her, chest heaving like he’d just finished a triathlon.

“We are going to die,” he muttered.

“No,” Jang-Mi snapped. “We’re going to Jeju. Now shut up and tie your shoelaces.”

Meanwhile, five minutes earlier, Jaewon and Kang-hyuk arrived at the port like the world’s most unlikely power couple.

Despite getting only three hours of sleep—thanks to Kang-hyuk’s “let’s pack at 2 AM because I don’t trust airline weight limits” philosophy—they somehow looked annoyingly put-together. Kang-hyuk wore a black hoodie, sleeves rolled up, bag slung across one shoulder like a stoic travel influencer. Jaewon had on oversized sunglasses, messy hair tucked into a hoodie, coffee in hand like a man both too tired and too stylish to care.

They were early.

Not by much—but enough.

“See?” Jaewon murmured, sipping his latte and nudging Kang-hyuk with his shoulder. “We made it. Minimal casualties.”

Kang-hyuk grunted in response, eyes scanning the empty dock like he was still waiting for an ambush.

“I’ll feel better when we’re on the boat.”

“I thought you liked boats.”

“I like land. Boats are just floating traps.”

Jaewon chuckled. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

Just then, a loud thud echoed from the distance as Dong-Ju came barreling into view like a human wrecking ball. He had one sneaker untied, his suitcase flailing behind him on one wheel, and his face already streaked with sweat.

“WE’RE GONNA MISS IT!” he screamed, practically foaming at the mouth.

“OH MY GOD!” Jang-Mi wailed behind him, juggling three tote bags and a portable fan. “I LEFT MY SPF 70!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU TURN AROUND—”

“I’M SWEATING. I’M MELTING. I’M GONNA DIE IN JEANS—”

Gyeong-Won strolled leisurely behind them, a straw sticking out of his cold brew, wireless earbuds in, radiating the smug calm of someone who had set five alarms and packed his bag the night before like an adult.

Jaewon lowered his sunglasses and blinked at the scene before him. Dong-Ju stumbled past like a collapsing tent. Jang-Mi tripped over her third bag and shrieked. Gyeong-Won gave them a thumbs-up from ten feet back.

Jaewon turned to Kang-hyuk.

“Are we late?” he asked, deadpan.

Kang-hyuk didn’t even blink. “They are.”

On the upper deck of the ferry, Chief Han appeared like a seaside godfather, leaning over the railing in a puffy windbreaker, coffee in one hand and a mini camcorder in the other. “HURRY UP!” he yelled gleefully. “You’ll miss the breakfast buffet!”

That did it.

Dong-Ju sprinted harder, veins bulging like he was crossing the final leg of an Olympic relay. Jang-Mi screamed, “DON’T LEAVE ME!” and threw her bag like a javelin at Jaewon, who barely caught it in time.

Kang-hyuk looked down at his watch. 05:52.

“They’ll make it,” he said calmly, stepping toward the ramp.

Jaewon raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“They’re too stubborn to die before vacation,” Kang-hyuk replied.

And sure enough, the gang made it onto the ferry in a hurricane of limbs, sweat, and suitcases—just in time to see Chief Han sipping his second cup of coffee, perfectly relaxed, while filming their dramatic arrival.

"Memories," he said, winking into the camcorder.

Dong-Ju collapsed onto the deck with a gasp.

Jang-Mi screamed at the seagulls.

Gyeong-Won casually unpacked his sunscreen, notebook, and neck pillow from a color-coded tote.

And Jaewon? Jaewon just laughed.

Vacation had officially begun.

---

The trauma team had been on the ferry for exactly twenty-four minutes.

And the atmosphere had already shifted from vacation bliss to emergency triage.

“I—I don’t feel so good,” Dong-Ju moaned, slumped over the railing of the outer deck, his skin several shades paler than usual and his cheeks puffing out like a human blowfish.

“I TOLD YOU,” Jang-Mi yelled from her seat under the shaded canopy, where she was gleefully sipping pineapple juice and taking selfies. “I told you not to eat a corn dog and triangle kimbap at the same time before boarding!”

“I didn’t think the boat would move this much!?”

“It’s a boat, Dong-Ju. That’s literally all it does!?”

Meanwhile, Kang-hyuk had been quiet. Too quiet. Sitting stiffly beside Jaewon, staring out at the infinite ocean with the haunted eyes of a man who had seen war—and was now seeing it again in the form of aggressive waves and sea wind.

“Professor,” Jaewon said carefully, nudging him with a bottle of water. “You good?”

Kang-hyuk turned his head slowly.

“…The sea is… not to be trusted.”

Jaewon blinked. “…Okay, Jack Sparrow.”

Chief Han had settled himself in the open-air lounge, already half-asleep under a bucket hat, snoring softly with his arms crossed and a mini-fan blowing into his face. Gyeong-Won sat nearby with a book titled ‘100 Ways to Fall Asleep Naturally’, sipping his third cold brew and occasionally throwing Dong-Ju pity glances.

But the true battlefield was unfolding right there—between Dong-Ju, who was now dry heaving into a paper bag, and Kang-hyuk, who was not dry heaving, but had turned the exact shade of his navy hoodie and was gripping the armrest like he expected the ferry to explode.

Jaewon leaned in toward him with a smirk. “Do I need to get the trauma kit?”

“No,” Kang-hyuk croaked, eyes glassy. “Just… hold my dignity.”

“I think we lost that at the dock when you almost punched a seagull.”

“It stole my breadstick.”

“You were waving it like a wand—what did you expect?”

Another lurch of the ferry sent Dong-Ju staggering past like a wet mop, his legs wobbly and his eyes wide. He flopped down beside Kang-hyuk and groaned.

“Professor… you too?” he whispered.

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. Just slowly turned his head. The two locked eyes like soldiers trapped in the same foxhole.

“…I didn’t sign up for this,” Dong-Ju murmured.

“I’ve survived worse,” Kang-hyuk muttered. “But never while sitting down.”

They both groaned in unison as the ferry rocked again, exaggerated by the early morning tide.

Jang-Mi, meanwhile, had finished her juice and was now on her second pack of seaweed snacks. “You two are embarrassing,” she called, cheerfully waving her phone. “Smile for the camera! Jaewon, lean in and kiss Professor’s forehead for luck!”

Kang-hyuk growled like a threatened animal.

Jaewon leaned back in his seat, one hand gently resting on Kang-hyuk’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect your pride,” he said with a small grin. “Even if you puke on my shoes.”

“If I puke,” Kang-hyuk said slowly, “we’re both going down with this boat.”

“Oh, how romantic.”

“I mean it.”

Jaewon chuckled and dug into his backpack, pulling out ginger candies and motion-sickness patches like some kind of vacation mom.

“Here,” he said, sticking a patch behind Kang-hyuk’s ear with surgeon-level precision. “Also gave one to Dong-Ju, but he tried to eat it.”

“It looked like a mint!” Dong-Ju whined from the bench, curled up in a fetal position.

Chief Han finally stirred from his nap, blinking at the sound of someone retching. He looked around with bleary eyes.

“…Are we sinking?”

“No, but these two are,” Jaewon replied dryly, gesturing at the misery twins.

“Pathetic,” Chief Han grunted before pulling his bucket hat over his eyes again.

---

Thirty minutes later, the ferry had reached calmer waters.

Dong-Ju was asleep, mouth open, face smushed against the bench. Kang-hyuk was no longer green—but had adopted a silence that Jaewon immediately recognized as post-suffering introspection.

They stood near the bow now, sea breeze soft against their faces, gulls crying in the distance, Jeju Island’s rocky coastline finally visible far ahead.

“You okay now?” Jaewon asked, sipping his coffee.

Kang-hyuk exhaled like an ancient tree finally shedding a storm. “No,” he said. “But I will be.”

Jaewon chuckled and leaned into him gently. “You were really brave out there.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” Jaewon looked up at him. “You didn’t even scream once. That’s a win.”

Kang-hyuk glanced at him, eyes narrowing.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” Jaewon admitted with a grin.

Kang-hyuk sighed. “If I die of motion sickness, you’re not allowed to move on.”

“Oh my god.”

“I mean it. You’re mine now.”

Jaewon blinked—and then blushed, the wind catching his hair.

“Okay, Mr. Dramatic. Let’s get you on land before you start writing your will.”

Kang-hyuk’s fingers brushed his. Just enough for Jaewon to feel the silent thank you between the touch. Just enough to promise there’d be better moments once they stepped off this floating hell.

From behind them, Jang-Mi yelled, “GET A ROOM, YOU TWO!”

Jaewon didn’t even turn. “Wait till we get to the villa!”

---

The ferry docked at Jeju just before noon, and the team disembarked like a group of poorly disguised fugitives.

Dong-Ju stumbled off the boat and immediately kissed solid ground. “Land,” he croaked. “Beautiful, beautiful land. I will never betray you again.”

“No promises,” Gyeong-Won muttered, dragging two rolling suitcases while wearing sunglasses, earbuds, and the vibe of someone who had not been emotionally derailed by mild waves.

Chief Han stretched like a retired cat, his bucket hat still askew. “Alright. Let’s find our villa, unpack, and begin our healing arc.”

“I’m already healed,” Jang-Mi said brightly. “Now I just want snacks and a nap in a room with a sea view.”

“You’ll fight for it like the rest of us,” Jaewon replied darkly.

The villa was a whitewashed, two-story dream perched on a hill with a view of the ocean and a lush green garden full of citrus trees. There were four bedrooms, two balconies, and one open kitchen that looked like it came from a drama set. The place practically screamed “trouble.”

And that was before anyone touched a suitcase.

The moment Chief Han unlocked the door, the trauma team exploded into action like contestants in a reality show.

“SHOTGUN MASTER BEDROOM!” Jang-Mi yelled, vaulting over a step with a surprising amount of core strength.

“THERE’S A BATHTUB WITH A WINDOW!” Dong-Ju screamed, dropping his bag and racing upstairs.

“I want the quiet room by the kitchen,” Gyeong-Won said calmly, already walking in that direction. “I will not be participating in this… chaos.”

“You will when someone tries to steal it from you!” Jang-Mi shrieked.

Chaos.

Pure chaos.

Jaewon, amused, strolled in after them with Kang-hyuk behind him. “We’re not gonna call dibs?”

Kang-hyuk raised an eyebrow. “I figured you’d pick for both of us.”

Jaewon blinked. “That’s dangerous trust.”

Kang-hyuk leaned in slightly, voice low. “Pick the one with the best view. I want to wake up next to you and the ocean.”

Jaewon short-circuited. “Okay, well, now I’m fighting everyone.”

And he did.

Ten Minutes Later: The War Room

Everyone was gathered in the living room like it was a hostage negotiation. The team had battle wounds. Jang-Mi had a scratch on her arm. Dong-Ju was holding an ice pack to his forehead (self-inflicted, after he ran into a door trying to claim a room). Jaewon was seated on the floor, hair ruffled, hoodie half off, glaring like a man who had almost claimed victory.

“I’m not sleeping in a room with a broken window,” Jang-Mi said for the fifth time.

“The window’s not broken, it’s artfully cracked,” Dong-Ju countered.

“It literally whistles when the wind blows.”

Chief Han sat at the kitchen island, sipping tangerine juice, not helping. “I told you to roll the dice for it.”

“I’m not leaving room selection to fate,” Jaewon snapped.

“I think we should do it by seniority,” Gyeong-Won offered.

“You’re not the oldest, hyung,” Dong-Ju pointed out.

“I meant emotional seniority.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“ENOUGH!” Kang-hyuk said, finally speaking after twenty minutes of watching them like a very tired camp counselor. His voice cut through the room like a scalpel. Everyone froze.

“You’re adults,” he said calmly. “Pick your rooms like adults.”

Silence.

Then, Jang-Mi pointed a dramatic finger. “YOU pick for us, Captain Emotionless!”

Kang-hyuk blinked. “Me?”

“Yes!” Dong-Ju said. “You’re the most terrifyingly fair person here. Be the neutral judge.”

“I literally just want a nap,” Kang-hyuk muttered.

But he stood. Hands behind his back like a general. “Fine. I choose.”

Results...

• Kang-hyuk and Jaewon: the ocean-facing balcony suite. (Because Jaewon won the argument with cuddling promises.)

• Jang-Mi: The room with the bathtub. (Because she threatened to sleep in it if she didn’t get it.)

• Gyeong-Won: the quiet room near the fridge. (Unchallenged, somehow.)

• Dong-Ju: the leftover room with the cracked window. (He wept.)

---

Later that Afternoon: Fluff o’clock

Jaewon flopped back onto their bed dramatically, arms wide, sighing like a man finally free from the trauma of city life and ferry-induced nausea.

Kang-hyuk stood by the window, staring out at the sea.

“We made it,” Jaewon said. “No one died.”

“Yet,” Kang-hyuk said, eyeing a suspicious seagull outside.

Jaewon giggled and held his hand out. “Come here, land-hating soldier boy.”

Kang-hyuk took his hand and let himself be pulled onto the bed. The mattress was soft, the scent of sea salt in the breeze curling through the room, and Jaewon beside him—barefoot, relaxed, hoodie abandoned somewhere on the floor—was smiling like the world had slowed down just for them.

“Tell me again why we don’t live here,” Jaewon whispered, burying his face in Kang-hyuk’s chest.

“Because you’d get distracted and never go to work.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“I’d quit in a heartbeat.”

Jaewon lifted his head, eyes shining. “Really?”

Kang-hyuk tucked a strand of hair behind Jaewon’s ear. “For this? For you? Yeah.”

There was a loud bang in the hallway.

“WHO ATE MY PEACHES?!” Jang-Mi screamed.

“NOT ME!” Dong-Ju yelled.

“YOU’RE LITERALLY CHEWING!”

Kang-hyuk sighed. “Peace was nice while it lasted.”

Jaewon laughed and reached over for his camera. “Quick, before chaos returns. Smile.”

Kang-hyuk did. A small, soft one. Just for him.

Chapter Text

It started with a scream.

“WHO THE HELL PUT SUGAR IN THE SCRAMBLED EGGS?!”

Jang-Mi’s voice exploded through the villa kitchen at 7:36 AM, sharp and furious like the wail of a fire alarm. Several birds scattered from the window. A spoon clattered to the floor. Somewhere in the distance, Dong-Ju dropped his phone in terror.

“Dong-Ju,” Gyeong-Won said calmly, without even looking up from where he was stirring his cold brew with the zen of a Buddhist monk. “It was Dong-Ju.”

“It was ONE TIME!” Dong-Ju wailed, brandishing a frying pan like a medieval knight with a grudge. “I thought it was salt, okay?! The labels are all in cursive! Cursive is evil!”

“You can’t read?” Jang-Mi snarled, flipping her omelet with the aggression of a woman personally betrayed. “What are you, five?”

Dong-Ju pointed accusingly at the spice rack like it had personally ruined his life. “You can’t tell me that isn’t suspicious! Who writes ‘salt’ in cursive on a glass jar in a villa rental? Are we suddenly in a Michelin-star kitchen?!”

“Maybe if you actually paid attention in kindergarten, you’d know the difference between SALT and SUGAR!” Jang-Mi barked, now dual-wielding a spatula and a bottle of sriracha.

Chief Han, dressed in a hideous Hawaiian shirt and clutching his cup of tea like it was his only tether to sanity, stood leaning against the doorframe. His phone was recording, naturally. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His eyes sparkled with glee. He was the zookeeper. These were his wild animals.

Meanwhile, in the far corner of the kitchen, Jaewon was quietly minding his own business, a checkered apron tied around his waist. His brows were furrowed in delicate concentration as he whisked eggs over a gentle flame, the scent of sesame oil and spring onion rising around him. His tongue peeked out slightly between his lips as he flipped his spatula with the grace of someone who had absolutely done this under stress before—possibly in a hospital cafeteria at 2 AM, possibly while crying.

Behind him stood Kang-hyuk, arms crossed, back against the counter. He looked on like a bodyguard monitoring a royal chef. His expression was cool, calm, and collected—but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, threatening to become a smile.

“Yours smells… decent,” Kang-hyuk said finally.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Jaewon replied, glancing over his shoulder with a cocky little grin. “Some of us know how to use a stove without violating the Geneva Convention.”

“Leftover trauma from med school potlucks?” Kang-hyuk asked.

“Obviously.” Jaewon scooped the eggs with precision into a small bowl, carefully arranging a few slices of avocado and kimchi on the side. “You remember the potato salad incident of 2018?”

Kang-hyuk flinched like he’d been slapped. “Don’t say that name.”

“That was Dong-Ju,” Jaewon added casually, as if recounting a war crime.

“I’M RIGHT HERE, GUYS!” Dong-Ju cried from the other side of the kitchen, now trying to wash a pan and failing spectacularly as it slipped and nearly took out his shin.

In the next fifteen minutes, total culinary chaos unfolded.

• Jang-Mi set fire to a slice of spam and insisted it was “smoked meat, idiot.”

• Gyeong-Won began hand-plating a deconstructed egg toast using tweezers.

• Dong-Ju tried to redeem himself by adding chili flakes to his scrambled monstrosity and coughed violently for three minutes straight.

• Jaewon serenely sliced fruit like he was in a cooking vlog.

Kang-hyuk? Never touched a pan. Simply helped Jaewon stir sauces, passed him ingredients, and once gently pulled the collar of his hoodie up when it slipped down his shoulder. He was the designated sous-chef, boyfriend edition.

When the chaos reached a boiling point (literally—Jang-Mi’s pan started to smoke again), Chief Han clapped his hands and declared a “Villa Breakfast Showdown.”

“Judging will commence in five minutes,” he said. “Presentation. Taste. Creativity. Bonus points if no one ends up in the ER.”

Jaewon plated his food last, simple and neat. A clean bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs, sliced cherry tomatoes, accompanied by a side of steamed rice (molded into a neat heart shape), and topped with a drizzle of sesame oil.

Kang-hyuk watched him quietly. “You’re showing off.”

Jaewon handed him the plate. “For you.”

Kang-hyuk blinked.

“Oh my god,” Gyeong-Won muttered from across the kitchen. “He’s domestic now. It’s over. Love has corrupted him.”

The judging began. Chief Han, now fully committed to the bit, made a show of tasting each dish like a Michelin critic.

The official results?

• Best Presentation: Jaewon. (Heart-shaped rice. It wasn’t even close.)

• Worst Taste: Dong-Ju. (The sugar returned. It always does.)

• Most Unnecessary Garnishes: Gyeong-Won. (Why were there edible flowers? Who hurt him?)

• Most Likely to be Poisoned: Jang-Mi. (Her “fusion” sriracha–horseradish omelet was described as “a hate crime against breakfast.”)

• Most Suspiciously Perfect: Kang-hyuk. (Didn’t cook. Just plated Jaewon’s dish with a sprig of mint and somehow got 8/10. Cheating, but make it romantic.)

“Are we feeding people or fighting a war?” Jaewon muttered, biting into a strawberry.

“Both,” Kang-hyuk replied, mouth full. “Depending on who eats Dong-Ju’s eggs.”

Dong-Ju dramatically flopped onto the kitchen bench. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m retiring. I’ll go become a barista in the mountains.”

“You’d probably mix up salt and sugar there too,” Gyeong-Won said.

“I HATE ALL OF YOU.”

Chief Han took another video.

---

It began innocently. Too innocently.

The beach was beautiful—turquoise waves glinting under the Jeju sun, white sands warm beneath their feet, and the villa’s portable speaker playing a suspiciously upbeat 2000s playlist curated by Dong-Ju (“Summer Hits to Get Betrayed To,” apparently). A volleyball net had been erected. Cones were set up. There was a box of dodgeballs ominously waiting in the shade.

Jang-Mi, in aviator sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, stood at the center like a tyrant preparing for war.

“Welcome,” she said, blowing a whistle no one remembered packing, “to the First Annual Trauma Team Beach Games. I will be your referee. I will not be fair. I will not be kind. I’ve had three Iced Americanos and no carbs. Choose your allies wisely.”

“…Are we going to die?” Jaewon whispered to Kang-hyuk, who had just finished applying SPF50 to Jaewon’s neck with soft, methodical fingers that completely betrayed the chaos about to unfold.

“Definitely,” Kang-hyuk murmured, then added, “But you’ll die with good skin.”

Jaewon snorted.

Round One: Dodgeball of Deception

Two teams were picked

• Team Trauma Lords: Kang-hyuk, Gyeong-Won, Jang-Mi (referee/chaotic neutral), and Jaewon.

• Team UnderDOGs: Dong-Ju, Chief Han, and the inflatable flamingo someone had dragged from the villa pool. (It was later named ‘Dr. Bong’ and granted honorary team membership.)

“Three against three and one bird,” Kang-hyuk muttered. “We’ve seen worse odds.”

“Yeah,” Jaewon said, stretching his arms as his hoodie came off to reveal toned arms and a ridiculous tank top that read ‘Code Blue, Code Cute’. “Remember that time we got caught between two Yakuza bodyguards and a flood alarm in Busan?”

Kang-hyuk stared at him, deadpan. “You brought that shirt to Jeju?”

“It was a gift!” Jaewon shot back. “From Dong-Ju!”

From across the sand, Dong-Ju beamed and gave a peace sign. Then was immediately hit in the face with a dodgeball.

“Game’s started!” Jang-Mi declared.

The beach became a war zone.

Kang-hyuk moved like a soldier—dodging, sliding in the sand, taking out Dr. Bong with a headshot that should’ve been illegal under international law.

Jaewon was faster than anyone expected, ducking and weaving, laughing with reckless joy as Chief Han tried to tackle him and missed by a foot, landing face-first in a sand pile.

Meanwhile, Gyeong-Won was sniping from the sidelines, cool as a cucumber with deadly aim.

“Why is he so good at this?” Dong-Ju yelled, panicking. “He’s an internist!”

“Internists are the worst,” Jang-Mi whispered from the sidelines, sipping her iced americano like wine. “They hold it in. Then explode.”

Dong-Ju tried to fake a throw—and immediately tripped over Dr. Bong, who was tragically sacrificed mid-round.

“NOOOO! BONGGG!” Chief Han screamed as the flamingo deflated in the sand, his arms outstretched like a widow in a historical drama.

“Finish them!” Jang-Mi bellowed.

And finish them they did—Kang-hyuk and Jaewon moved in tandem, one high, one low. It was beautiful. It was synchronized. It was unfair. Dong-Ju screamed as the ball hit his shin.

Aftermath: Sand, Betrayal, and Flirting

They collapsed on towels, breathless, sweaty, and full of competitive rage.

“You two are monsters,” Chief Han grunted, fanning himself with a sunhat.

“You dove over me, Jaewon,” Dong-Ju groaned. “I have sand in places sand should never be.”

“Sounds like a personal issue,” Jaewon said with zero remorse.

Kang-hyuk passed him a bottle of water, crouching beside him with a faint grin. “Nice move out there. That dodge under the ball?”

“Learned from the best,” Jaewon said, smiling up at him.

There was a moment—just a beat—where their eyes locked. Soft. Still. The sun caught the edge of Jaewon’s cheekbone, and Kang-hyuk’s hair was tousled from the wind, and for a second, it felt like everything else went quiet.

“You guys are being gross again,” Jang-Mi said from her towel, tossing a handful of sand vaguely in their direction. “Go make out behind a sand dune or something. This is a team vacation.”

“We’re not—” Jaewon started.

“Sure you’re not,” Gyeong-Won said without looking up from his phone. “Anyway, next event’s coming. I brought water balloons.”

---

The beach games ended in laughter, bruises, and a broken inflatable flamingo buried ceremoniously in the sand.

The villa quieted down by nightfall. Someone lit citronella candles on the balcony. Dong-Ju passed out on the couch with an ice pack and three granola bars. Gyeong-Won locked himself in the bathroom to meditate. Jang-Mi was reorganizing the kitchen in passive-aggressive silence because “someone put gochujang in the fridge door.”

Kang-hyuk disappeared somewhere around sunset. And when Jaewon realized it had been a while, he slipped out of the villa barefoot, hoodie pulled over his head, a rolled-up blanket in hand, and heart thudding with something stupid and soft.

He found Kang-hyuk by the edge of the beach, sitting on a flat rock facing the ocean, backlit by a thousand stars.

The wind played with his hair. His hands were in his pockets. He was just sitting there, unmoving, like he was trying to memorize the shape of the sky.

Jaewon stepped into the sand beside him.

“You planning to brood alone forever,” he said quietly, “or can I join?”

Kang-hyuk turned just enough to glance over, lips quirking faintly. “Only if you brought a blanket.”

Jaewon grinned and held it up. “One step ahead of you, General.”

They sat side by side, legs tucked beneath them, the blanket covering their shoulders.

For a while, there were no words. Only the sound of waves lapping the shore. A lighthouse blinking somewhere in the distance. The breeze carrying the faint scent of salt and summer.

Then, “...I used to look up at the stars a lot during ITHACA,” Kang-hyuk murmured.

Jaewon’s gaze shifted. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” Kang-hyuk’s eyes didn’t leave the sky. “When things got quiet. When everyone else was sleeping. I'd sneak out. Just to remind myself, the world was still there. That it didn’t end with blood and orders.”

A pause.

“And now?” Jaewon asked softly.

Kang-hyuk finally turned to face him, gaze slow and deliberate. “Now I look up… and I see you.”

Jaewon’s breath caught. He laughed, but it was the kind that cracked at the edges, like he didn’t know where to put the feeling.

“That was really cheesy,” he said.

“Was it?” Kang-hyuk asked. “I meant it.”

Jaewon leaned in. “You know what’s worse?”

“What?”

“I liked it.”

They stared at each other, blanketed in silver starlight. Kang-hyuk’s hand moved first—reaching up, brushing back a strand of hair that had blown into Jaewon’s face. His fingers lingered against Jaewon’s jaw, soft and reverent, like he didn’t dare press too hard.

“I’m glad we’re here,” Jaewon whispered. “All of us. But… you. I’m glad you made it back when ITHACA happened. I didn’t think you would.” His hands caressed Kang-hyuk's cheek, feeling his presence; it was real. He was here, right beside him, "After recents events, I thought we wouldn't make it... I thought-"

Kang-hyuk’s thumb grazed his cheek. “You were the reason I came back, Jaewon...”

And in that moment—simple, quiet, breathless—Jaewon leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft. It was warm. A little hesitant at first, like they were both still learning what it meant to touch without consequences, to love without hiding. Kang-hyuk’s hand slid to the back of Jaewon’s neck, anchoring him. Jaewon let himself lean fully into it, heart thudding like ocean waves.

He pulled back just enough to breathe. “I love you.”

Kang-hyuk’s eyes didn’t waver. “I know.”

But then—

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“OH MY GOD, I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE—”

“I WASN’T BREATHING, HOW DID I MOVE?!”

“YOU TOOK A PHOTO WITH FLASH, YOU DUMBASS!”

From behind the bushes near the dunes, the entire trauma team exploded like clowns tumbling out of a car.

Jang-Mi was dragging Dong-Ju by the ear. Gyeong-Won stood there with a camera phone, expressionless. Chief Han was holding a pair of binoculars and looking too proud.

Jaewon buried his face in Kang-hyuk’s shoulder. “I hate them.”

“I told you we should’ve gone to the mountains,” Kang-hyuk muttered.

“I REGRET NOTHING!” Dong-Ju yelled, waving the photo of the kiss in the air. “I’M MAKING THIS A STICKER.”

“Give me that phone!” Jaewon shrieked, launching after him.

Kang-hyuk stayed seated on the rock, lips parted in a real, helpless laugh—the kind that lit up his whole face, rare and precious.

The stars sparkled on, unbothered. And the ocean kept its rhythm.

Somewhere in between the yelling, laughter, and chaos, love stayed quiet.

But it was there. It was everywhere.

Chapter Text

The morning light was a gentle thing in Jeju.

It crept in through sheer white curtains, casting long, lazy beams that brushed over the wooden floorboards and climbed the rumpled bedsheets like a shy visitor. A breeze stirred, fluttering the gauze, carrying in the scent of salt, citrus, and quiet freedom.

Jaewon stirred first, eyes blinking open to the stillness of their shared room. For a second, he wasn’t a trauma surgeon or a man with a thousand scars etched in silence. He was simply someone in love, watching the person who made his heart feel like it had a home.

Kang-hyuk lay beside him, half-blanketed, one arm flung across the pillow, lips parted just slightly in sleep. There was a soft crease between his brows, even now, like he was fending off some invisible enemy in his dreams. Jaewon instinctively reached out, fingers brushing over Kang-hyuk’s forehead, smoothing the line away.

He lingered there, watching him breathe—slow and steady, his chest rising in that rare rhythm of safety.

A small, dopey smile crept onto Jaewon’s face. Carefully, reverently, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Kang-hyuk’s shoulder. Barely a whisper of touch. Just enough to say: I’m here. I love you. You’re safe.

Kang-hyuk stirred at the contact, a quiet hum catching in his throat. His lashes fluttered open, dark eyes meeting Jaewon’s, sleep-warm and unguarded.

“Morning,” he rasped.

Jaewon grinned, voice low and teasing. “I think I just fell in love with your sleeping face. Again.”

“Bold of you to assume I was asleep,” Kang-hyuk muttered, eyes narrowing playfully as he pulled Jaewon closer. “I was ignoring you.”

“That sounds fake.” Jaewon curled against him, burying his face into Kang-hyuk’s neck, breath warm. “Wanna go explore Jeju Town today? Just us. Before the others drag us into another water gun death match or egg disaster.”

Kang-hyuk snorted. “Yeah… I'd like that.”

---

Of course, peace never lasted long in the Villa.

When Jaewon stepped out of their room freshly showered, hand in Kang-hyuk’s as they descended the stairs, they were immediately greeted by the unholy shriek of Jang-Mi from the kitchen.

“GYEONG-WON. Did you use my toner as fabric mist again?!”

“You left it next to the laundry basket! And it smelled… plant-y!” came Gyeong-Won’s indignant reply.

Dong-Ju was curled up on the sofa like a half-dead cat, hoodie over his head, sipping hangover tea. “Please tell me someone’s bringing back pastries… or Tylenol.”

Chief Han was at the dining table, scrolling on his phone, already dressed and sipping black coffee like this was his job interview.

Jaewon cleared his throat. “We’re heading out early. Just gonna explore town a bit. Grab coffee. Maybe breakfast.”

Kang-hyuk, behind him, nodded once and reached for his jacket.

Immediately, four heads turned.

“Ohhh, you two are going out alone?” Jang-Mi said, leaning dramatically against the counter. “How romantic. Are we thinking of couple photos? Soft-lit alleyway kiss? Matching beanies?”

“Please say matching beanies,” Gyeong-Won added, mock-prayer hands.

Dong-Ju peeked from under his hoodie. “Can you bring me back hotteok? I’ll trade you for silence. And maybe sunscreen.”

Chief Han raised an eyebrow over his mug. “Are we pretending none of us saw the forehead kiss last night under the stars?”

Jaewon flushed scarlet. Kang-hyuk didn’t bother hiding his smirk.

“We’ll be back before lunch,” Jaewon mumbled, already herding Kang-hyuk toward the door. “No crimes while we’re gone.”

“No promises,” the team called back in chaotic unison.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing in the team’s teasing voices as they stepped into the early morning quiet. The air was cool and carried the scent of sea salt and tangerine fields. They walked slowly, side by side, shoulders brushing.

The world outside the villa felt different—slower, softer. No beeping monitors, no blood, no screaming patients, or impossible choices.

Just Kang-hyuk and Jaewon, hand in hand, soaking in a rare kind of freedom.

Their first destination was a sleepy little café nestled beneath a plum-blossomed tree. The petals were beginning to fall, dotting the ground like scattered confetti. A faded wooden sign hung crookedly over the door: Café Mool.

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside. It smelled like cinnamon and espresso, with a warmth that wrapped around the soul. Behind the counter, an elderly barista with silvery hair offered them a smile and two rustic mugs of latte topped with artful foam hearts.

“Sit by the window,” she said in a whispery voice. “That’s the lovers’ corner.”

Jaewon nearly tripped over his own feet.

They settled at a corner table where soft sunlight filtered through the leaves outside. Kang-hyuk took a sip of his latte and hummed. “Not bad. Definitely better than Dong-Ju’s coffee attempts.”

Jaewon nudged him. “That’s a low bar. His ‘coffee’ tastes like regret.”

They drank in easy silence. Outside, the street was slowly waking—vendors wheeling carts, bicycles rattling over cobbled stones, a little dog barking as it chased its own tail.

Jaewon stared down at their joined hands. “Are we really doing this?”

Kang-hyuk glanced at him, eyes soft. “We already are.”

A few blocks down, they found it—the fabled Jeju Lovers’ Arch. Dozens of rusted padlocks clung to its iron frame, each one etched with hearts, initials, or messy declarations of forever.

Kang-hyuk arched an eyebrow. “Did you plan this?”

Jaewon pulled a lock from his jacket pocket with a grin that was half shy, half smug. “...Maybe.”

He also produced a pen from his back pocket—his emergency pen, the one he always kept clipped to his ID badge.

He held the lock steady while writing:

K + J
Always & Forever
16.06.2025 (Jeju)

Kang-hyuk reached out to help click it shut onto the chain. They stood there for a moment, eyes on the lock.

“Moment locked,” Kang-hyuk murmured.

Jaewon smiled. “Now we just need the cheesy photo.”

“Oh, we’re definitely not sending that to the group chat.”

“They’ll find it anyway.”

“...True.”

They tossed the tiny key into the moss-covered fountain beneath the arch. Somewhere, a tiny bell chimed. Maybe in celebration.

Kang-hyuk turned to Jaewon, hands still lightly touching. “This… this is a good memory.”

Jaewon nodded. “Let’s keep making more.”

---

They followed their hearts—and their taste buds—down a winding alley bursting with life.

Steam rose from the street carts like incense, scented with red chili oil, grilled fish cakes, bubbling broth, and sizzling scallion pancakes. The road was alive with the clatter of chopsticks, soft hums of approval, and the clang of steel ladles stirring molten-orange sauce. Hawkers shouted specials and teenagers huddled under parasols, slurping noodles with red-stained mouths.

Jaewon tilted his head, scanning the choices. “Tteokbokki?”

Kang-hyuk raised an eyebrow. “Spicy or mild?”

Jaewon smirked. “Up to you, Commander.”

Challenge accepted.

Kang-hyuk pointed to the extra spicy bowl like a man about to jump from a cliff and pay for it with dignity. The vendor grinned wickedly and handed over a steaming bowl of fiery-red rice cakes, the surface glistening with chili oil, scallions, and sliced odeng.

They sat on low stools near the cart, sharing a small table covered in metal trays and napkin bundles.

Kang-hyuk took the first bite.

There was a pause—a fleeting moment of cautious hope on his face—before it crumpled entirely. His eyes widened. His breath hitched. Then came the cough, the choked gasp, and the sharp inhale like a soldier hit with emotional shrapnel.

Jaewon nearly fell off his stool laughing.

“You okay?” he managed through his grin, sliding over his own bowl. “Want mine?”

Kang-hyuk's ears had gone pink. “I’m fine,” he said between gulps of water, dignity clinging to him by a thread. “I’ve survived actual warzones.”

“You just lost a fight to fermented gochujang,” Jaewon teased, wrapping an arm around Kang-hyuk’s shoulders like a lifeline. “Come here, spicy boy.”

Kang-hyuk leaned in, still coughing but chuckling too, as Jaewon fed him a bite from his own mild tteokbokki. Their heads were close, shoulders brushing. A friendship moment—yes—but full of something delicate and electric underneath. Warmth that threaded through every glance. A shared kind of softness they didn’t yet know how to name.

Nearby, a street musician strummed a soft acoustic ballad beneath paper lanterns, the melody twining with the scent of spice and sugar and oil.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Just… breathed. Together.

---

They turned a corner and found a quiet stall tucked beside a weathered bookstore. Threads of every color draped over wooden spools and beaded jars, shimmering in the dappled sunlight. An ajumma sat behind the stand, her hands moving with gentle precision, weaving a pattern with thread between her fingers.

Jaewon slowed to a stop, gaze caught.

Kang-hyuk followed his eyes. “Bracelets?”

The ajumma looked up, smiling. “For you two. Pick one color each. They’re for protection. And… wishes.”

Jaewon blinked. “Wishes?”

She nodded. “Tie one on someone you love. If it stays on until the string wears out, the wish comes true.”

They exchanged a glance. The kind that said we shouldn’t be this soft about string—and we absolutely are.

Jaewon picked pale blue. Kang-hyuk chose white. They sat beside each other on the bench near the stall, rolling the threads between their fingers as the ajumma showed them how to weave. The world around them blurred into the hush of thread brushing skin, breath mingling in quiet closeness, and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

Their knees touched.

Every so often, their fingers grazed, lingering longer than necessary.

Jaewon’s brow furrowed as he focused on the knot. “I’m a surgeon. Why is this harder than sutures?”

“You’re overthinking it,” Kang-hyuk said quietly, helping adjust his fingers.

“I don’t want it to fall off.”

“It won’t.”

When they finished, Jaewon tied the white bracelet around Kang-hyuk’s wrist, carefully and slowly. Kang-hyuk did the same, his fingers brushing Jaewon’s skin longer than needed.

When he finished the knot, he didn’t pull his hand away.

“You make me better,” Kang-hyuk murmured.

Jaewon didn’t look away. “That’s my job.”

And in the hush between their pulses, the wind slipped through the threads. Like a secret passed between them.

They continue to wander toward a plaza painted with murals and lined with food carts, only to be ambushed by chaos incarnate.

“LOOKING GOOD, LOVE BIRDS!” Jang-mi shrieked across the open-air square, waving a squid skewer in one hand and a giant juice in the other.

Gyeong-Won turned around from a stand selling novelty sunglasses. He had at least four pairs on his head. “You guys missed it—Dong-Ju tried to buy incense and accidentally lit his own sleeve.”

“I was trying to protect your nasal integrity,” Dong-Ju called, now wearing a neon pineapple sunhat and holding a bag of skewers like it was his child. “And this hat was a gift, okay?”

Kang-hyuk sighed. “What's happening here?”

“You brought this upon yourself,” Jaewon whispered, still grinning. He stepped closer, brushing arms with him.

They were immediately swept into the fold: sweet hotteok passed around like contraband, sugary teas in mismatched bottles, souvenir rings and glitter tattoos, selfies under the weirdest statues imaginable. The group functioned like a well-oiled machine.

A nearby vendor rolled out a Wheel of Fortune game.

“You spin it, you win it!” the vendor yelled.

Kang-hyuk stepped up. “Let’s test fate.”

He spun it. The arrow clicked around… and landed on “TRY AGAIN.”

“Guess fate’s a tease,” Jaewon smirked.

“I’ll hang the consolation prize on my stethoscope,” Kang-hyuk replied, accepting a sparkly keychain shaped like a fish with stoic pride.

---

By noon, the world had slowed around them.

The trauma team had scattered across the open park like spilled marbles—chaotic and loud in the best way possible—but here, under the wide maple tree at the far edge of the grass, time moved differently.

They had collapsed onto a faded picnic mat with flour-dusted pastries and sweating bottles of barley tea nestled between them, the wrappers rustling gently in the breeze like lullabies. The shade was cool, mottled in golden light filtering through the leaves above. The kind of warmth that didn’t burn—just clung softly to skin.

Jaewon sat beside Kang-hyuk, his shoulder pressed into the other man’s as if magnetized by some quiet, unseen gravity. Their legs were stretched out side by side, toes brushing once in a while like the tide touching shore. Jaewon’s head rested just slightly against Kang-hyuk’s upper arm—not quite leaning, not quite pretending he wasn’t.

Kang-hyuk’s fingers moved slowly, gently, across Jaewon’s palm.

He wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Circles, small and absentminded, then lines tracing the faint lifelines, then the soft pad of his thumb rubbing over calluses and scars—the story of a surgeon told in skin and silence.

It felt… grounding. Like trying to memorize someone by touch. Like saying Stay with me without uttering a word.

Jaewon’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away.

“See that?” he murmured, voice barely rising above the rustling leaves.

He nodded toward the team across the grass.

Jang-mi was balancing three towering cups of juice with the reckless confidence of a woman who had once performed field surgery in a helicopter. Dong-Ju stood with his arms out, arguing passionately with a pigeon that had apparently stolen part of his hotteok. Gyeong-won, meanwhile, was trying to high-five a toddler who had completely ignored him in favor of stealing his sunglasses.

“That’s what normal looks like,” Jaewon said softly, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Loud. Ridiculous. Easy.”

Kang-hyuk followed his gaze, and a smile crept across his own face—fond and faint, but warm enough to melt the edges of anything sharp inside him.

He looked down, then, at the matching bracelets around their wrists—the soft twist of blue and white thread, the ones they’d tied on each other just hours ago. The knot on Jaewon’s wrist was slightly crooked. The knot on his own was tighter, neater—he remembered concentrating on it too hard, hands shaking with something he couldn’t name.

“Normal, yeah…” Kang-hyuk said, his voice low, barely more than a breath. “But this, too.”

Jaewon turned his head, gaze lingering. His expression had shifted—softer now, careful, like he was listening with more than just his ears.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Kang-hyuk looked down again. At their wrists. Their linked shadows. The small space between them that no longer felt like distance, just breath.

“This,” he said, and his words came out quieter now, like he was giving them away. “You next to me. This quiet. The way you calm everything in me without even trying. Like…” He hesitated. “Like you cancel out the noise. The leftover war.”

There was something cracked in his voice. Not broken—never broken—but fragile, honest.

Jaewon blinked, eyes shining faintly. Then he turned, slow and deliberate, and took Kang-hyuk’s hand in both of his. He lifted it with care, like something sacred, and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm.

Not rushed. Not teasing.

Soft. Devotional.

Then, he kissed each fingertip. One by one.

Finally, he turned Kang-hyuk’s wrist, found the place just beneath the skin where his pulse thrummed—quiet, steady, stubborn—and pressed his thumb there, like an anchor.

“I will build this,” Jaewon said. His voice didn’t waver, but his throat did. “Every day. No matter how much war you carry. Even if it takes a lifetime.”

Kang-hyuk exhaled sharply, like something inside him had just let go. His other hand found the back of Jaewon’s neck, drawing him forward until their foreheads touched—gently, like a prayer.

His voice broke through the hush, barely more than a breath.

“I love that normal.”

Jaewon closed his eyes. Let the moment settle between them. The wind slipped through the branches above, stirring the leaves. The sounds of the team’s laughter in the distance softened, like the world had given them a few seconds of silence just for this.

And in that silence, love didn’t shout.

It didn’t need to.

It bloomed—quiet, unshakable, steady—between their joined hands, around their matching threads, beneath the mapled light of Jeju’s afternoon sun.

Not a grand explosion. But a vow. And it was everything.

---

The villa was quiet in the kind of way only 3 a.m. could offer.

Outside, the wind had stilled. The sea beyond the cliffs breathed slowly and constantly, a lullaby in blue. Inside, the laughter from hours ago had faded into memory, settling into the wooden floors and soft pillows like dust after a storm.

Jang-mi had stopped snoring.

Dong-ju lay sprawled on the living room rug, surrounded by snack wrappers and an empty banana milk like a soldier who’d lost a battle no one remembered starting. Gyeong-won had sleep-talked about vending machine uprisings—again—and then fallen silent.

And in the furthest room of the villa, moonlight spilled through thin curtains like silk, brushing across Kang-hyuk’s face.

He stirred first.

No jolts. No gasps. Just a breath—deep and slow, the kind you took when your body still remembered fear even when the danger had passed. He blinked at the ceiling for a long moment, feeling the strange, quiet ache of peace. Of safety.

He should’ve been asleep. Everything was fine. Everyone was safe.

So why did peace feel like an unfamiliar coat—warm but ill-fitting?

He turned his head slightly. Jaewon was beside him, face tucked into the pillow, lips parted in sleep. There was a faint crease between his brows, even now. Kang-hyuk almost reached out to smooth it. Instead, he slid carefully out of bed, the cotton of his hoodie muffling the sound of his movement.

The deck outside their room was cold against his feet. He sat anyway, drawing his knees up, fingers laced together.

Above him, the Jeju sky unfolded in silence.

The stars were outrageous—like someone had scattered a box of diamonds across ink. Vast. Untouched. Infinite.

He hadn’t seen a sky like that in years.

And for some reason, it made his chest hurt. Like his body didn’t know how to process stillness without bracing for the crash.

Footsteps, soft. Then, the sound of the sliding door, Kang-hyuk didn’t need to turn around.

“I was trying not to wake you,” he said, voice low.

“You didn’t.” Jaewon’s voice was gravel-soft with sleep. “I just… know when you’re not there.”

Kang-hyuk swallowed. That did something to him. Something deep.

Jaewon sat beside him, hoodie sleeves too long, hair a tousled halo. He leaned in without asking, shoulder warm against Kang-hyuk’s.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked gently.

“Too quiet,” Kang-hyuk murmured. “Too… good.”

Jaewon didn’t respond right away. He just looked up with him, eyes dark and thoughtful.

“It’s scary, isn’t it?” he said eventually. “When you’ve gone through so much war, peace starts to feel like a lie.”

Kang-hyuk exhaled. “Yeah.”

He hesitated. Then said, “I keep thinking it’ll vanish. Like maybe I don’t deserve this. You. Any of it.”

Jaewon’s hand found his in the dark, fingers slipping through with the kind of quiet certainty that didn’t ask for permission.

“You do,” he whispered.

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat felt tight. The stars above blurred slightly in his vision, and not from distance.

Jaewon turned toward him, that crease between his brows now softened. His voice stayed low, like they might scare the night away if they spoke too loud.

“I’m not going anywhere, Hyung. You don’t have to keep waking up afraid.”

Kang-hyuk looked at him then—really looked. At the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw, the way the moonlight caught on his lashes like frost.

It hit him like a wave, all at once, how much he loved this man. How much he needed him. How fragile it all still felt inside his chest.

“I don’t know how to stop waiting for things to fall apart,” Kang-hyuk admitted.

Jaewon’s eyes softened. He leaned his forehead against Kang-hyuk’s temple. “Then let me stay beside you when they don’t.”

Kang-hyuk closed his eyes.

And for a moment, it wasn’t Jeju. It wasn’t 3 a.m. It was just warmth. Hands held. Hearts learning.

“You’re the only thing that silences it,” he whispered. “The war in my head. You don’t even try… and somehow, it stops.”

Jaewon pressed a kiss to the back of his hand.

“Then I’ll keep doing that. Every morning. Every damn day. Until your body forgets the shape of fear.”

Kang-hyuk’s breath caught.

“I’m allowed to want this, right?”

Jaewon looked at him, so gently that it almost hurt.

“You’re allowed to live it.”

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t have to.

They sat under the stars—two men who’d survived fire and blood and silence—and let themselves be. Fingers laced. Shoulders leaned. No battles. No ghosts.

Just breathe. And love. And the slow, aching promise of something permanent.

Eventually, they went back inside.

Jaewon curled instinctively into Kang-hyuk’s chest the moment they lay down again, like gravity had decided it for him. And Kang-hyuk wrapped his arms around him, forehead resting against Jaewon’s crown.

No alarms. No gunshots. No distant sirens.

Just the sound of two hearts learning peace.

And that night, for the first time in a very long time—Kang-hyuk didn’t wake up at all.

Chapter Text

The sun rose slowly, painting the villa in soft shades of gold and peach. Outside, the ocean glimmered with early light. Inside, peace lasted exactly thirty seconds.

Then—“WHO ATE MY STRAWBERRY YOGURT?!”

A door slammed open. Dong-Ju appeared in the hallway, wild-eyed, holding an empty cup like a murder weapon. His hair was sticking up like a crown of betrayal.

From the kitchen, Jang-Mi’s sleepy voice, “You left it unguarded in a communal fridge. Rookie mistake.”

“YOU MONSTER!”

“Guilty as charged,” she said, licking a spoon.

Chaos bloomed like clockwork.

Kang-hyuk was already half-dressed, coffee mug in hand, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen with the amused look of someone who knew better than to interfere. Jaewon trailed in moments later, hoodie sleeves covering his hands, hair still soft from sleep.

He blinked at the scene: Gyeong-Won trying to toast five slices of bread in a pan, Jang-Mi dancing between coffee spills and kimchi pancakes, Dong-Ju in open mourning over his yogurt, and Kang-hyuk watching it all like it was his favorite soap opera.

Jaewon stifled a laugh.

Kang-hyuk caught the sound and looked over.

Their eyes met. And something passed between them—quiet and warm and full. A softness beneath the noise. Last night’s starlight still clinging to them both.

Jaewon crossed the room to stand beside him, shoulder brushing his. Kang-hyuk passed him the mug wordlessly. Shared. Like instinct.

“Good sleep?” Jaewon asked under his breath.

“With you beside me? Yeah.”

Jaewon’s ears went a little red.

Before he could reply, Gyeong-Won let out a dramatic gasp. “WHO PUT SEAWEED IN MY PANCAKE MIX?!”

Dong-Ju: “Revenge is a dish best served salty.”

“YOU LITTLE—”

“SAVE IT FOR THE DODGEBALL REMATCH, GYEONG-WON!” Jang-Mi yelled from the counter. “LET’S SEE YOU DODGE MY WRATH.”

Kang-hyuk leaned into Jaewon, grinning. “This is how I know we’re gonna be okay.”

Jaewon smiled. “How?”

Kang-hyuk nodded toward their team: a whirlwind of frying oil, spilled jam, and loud declarations of vengeance. “Because no matter what hell we walk through… this is the world we come home to.”

Jaewon didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, softly, “This is the family we chose.”

Behind them, Jang-Mi shouted, “PROFESSOR, TELL YOUR BOYFRIEND TO STOP SABOTAGING MY KITCHEN.”

Kang-hyuk: “Which boyfriend?”

The entire team: “OH MY GOD—”

Jaewon choked on his coffee.

“You’re gonna die today,” he whispered.

Kang-hyuk smirked. “Worth it.”

Dong-Ju pointed dramatically. “They’ve been sharing mugs! I knew it! I KNEW IT.”

Jang-Mi slammed a ladle onto the counter. “Forget pancakes—we’re making omelets of TRUTH.”

“EVERYONE TO THE TABLE,” Gyeong-Won declared. “TODAY, WE DINE. AND SPILL.”

Kang-hyuk and Jaewon exchanged one last look—long-suffering and full of love—and then surrendered to the chaos. They joined the table, where mismatched plates and charred toast waited like trophies.

The last breakfast in Jeju was loud. Messy. Unfiltered.

Jaewon got egg on his sleeve. Kang-hyuk got hit with a rolled-up napkin. Dong-Ju nearly cried when Gyeong-Won admitted he’d been hiding snacks under his bed. Jang-Mi made a toast with orange juice, “To surviving trauma, terrorists, dodgy ferry rides, and each other.”

They all clinked mismatched mugs.

And beneath it all—beneath the shouting, the laughter, the crumbs—there was something sacred.

Not in the quiet. Not in the starlight.

But in the noise. In the comfort of people who knew your worst and stayed anyway.

In the found family, you burned toast with.

---

The sun was beginning its slow descent when they reached the shoreline.

The rest of the team had stayed behind—Jang-Mi still negotiating with the villa owner over the broken rice cooker, Dong-Ju passed out face-first on the porch swing, and Gyeong-Won swearing he saw a wild Jeju horse and needed photographic evidence. The world was loud behind them, but here, just past the dunes where the sea met the sand—there was only quiet.

Kang-hyuk and Jaewon walked in slow steps, sneakers dangling from their fingers, the ocean licking at their feet like it knew they’d be gone soon.

The breeze was gentle. The kind that didn’t push or pull, just passed through you. Carried away what it could.

Jaewon was the first to speak.

“…I wish we had more time.”

His voice was low. Not sad, exactly. But honest.

Kang-hyuk glanced at him—wind in his hair, jeans cuffed at the ankles, the same bracelet they’d tied on days ago still snug around his wrist.

“We made the most of it,” Kang-hyuk said.

“I know. It’s just…” Jaewon hesitated. “When it’s peaceful like this, I feel like I can finally breathe. Like there’s air in places I didn’t know were suffocating.”

Kang-hyuk nodded slowly, eyes scanning the horizon. The sun was casting the sea in golds and soft oranges, like fire melting into glass.

“Maybe that’s what this trip was for,” he said. “To remember what breathing feels like.”

A silence settled between them. The kind of full of meaning. The kind that wrapped around your ribs and stayed.

Kang-hyuk exhaled through his nose. “Do you remember the first night we got here? I couldn’t even sleep. I kept waiting for something to go wrong. For the mission call. The explosion. The next goodbye.”

Jaewon didn’t answer at first. Just took Kang-hyuk’s free hand in his, threading their fingers together.

“I know,” he whispered. “You still brace every time something’s too quiet.”

Kang-hyuk looked down at their hands. His thumb brushed Jaewon’s knuckles. “It’s hard to believe this kind of quiet can be safe.”

Jaewon turned, stepping in front of him now. His eyes searched Kang-hyuk’s face, soft but steady.

“You don’t have to earn rest, you know,” he said gently. “You don’t have to bleed first just to deserve peace.”

Kang-hyuk’s throat tightened. “Old habits.”

Jaewon squeezed his hand. “Then let’s make new ones.”

The sun dipped lower. The shadows stretched long behind them, but their faces were still lit in gold. Jaewon reached up and brushed windblown strands of hair off Kang-hyuk’s forehead.

“You built a life to protect people,” he said. “Now let me be the one to protect you sometimes.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His heart was swelling too fast. Too full.

So instead, he pulled Jaewon into his arms.

Held him there, quietly, as the tide kissed their feet and the sky wept its last color.

“I’m scared, Jaewon,” Kang-hyuk murmured against his hair. “Of waking up and losing this. Of waking up without you.”

“You won’t,” Jaewon said without hesitation. “Even when we leave Jeju, this doesn’t end. You still wake up with me. In Seoul. In the middle of chaos. In the middle of healing. Wherever we are.”

Kang-hyuk closed his eyes. The scent of sea salt and Jaewon’s hoodie. The feeling of arms around his ribs, grounding him. Holding him together.

“I want to come home to you,” he whispered. “Always.”

“You already do.”

When they pulled apart, the sky was nearly purple. The last blush of sunlight stretched like a ribbon across the sea.

Jaewon took a step back, then pulled something from his pocket.

“I found these in the villa gift shop,” he said, holding up two small seashell necklaces—simple, round, strung on black thread. “They're cheesy. But… I don’t know. I wanted us to have something from here. A reminder.”

Kang-hyuk looked at the necklace, then at Jaewon.

“You’re a sap.”

“You love it.”

He did.

Kang-hyuk bowed his head, letting Jaewon loop it around his neck.

When it was Jaewon’s turn, Kang-hyuk’s hands lingered longer. Let his thumbs brush the curve of Jaewon’s jaw as he tied the knot.

“Now you’re stuck with me,” Kang-hyuk said, voice low.

“I was stuck from the moment you shouted at me at the ER when you first barged in and took over my patient,” Jaewon whispered.

And then, finally—under the soft hush of wind and ocean and sky—they kissed.

No urgency. No fear. Just presence.

Just them. Soft. Steady. Home.

They walked back to the villa with their shoulders pressed together, the night slowly wrapping around them. Tomorrow, they would return to Seoul. But tonight, they carried Jeju with them.

In their steps. In the seashells against their hearts. And in the memory of a sky that let go gently—so love could stay.

---

The first morning back in Seoul was loud.

Reality had teeth again—phone lines ringing off the hook, the muffled thud of stretchers wheeling down the corridor, the never-ending beeps of machines monitoring lives on the brink. A baby wailed from the ER entrance, someone shouted for blood pressure readings, and the intern lounge smelled aggressively of instant noodles and bad decisions.

And yet…

Kang-hyuk stood quietly beside the coffee machine on the second floor, his back leaning against the window where morning light filtered in through the glass. His arms were crossed. His coat was crisp. His expression was unreadable, as always.

But something was different.

He didn’t look tired.

Not the way he used to—shoulders heavy with ghosts, spine curled in like he was always bracing for the next explosion.

No, this was something else. Something steadier.

He hadn’t realized until he stood there, still, in the familiar hum of hospital noise… that something had changed.

Inside him, Jeju hadn’t left.

The ocean hadn’t receded.

And as if summoned by the thought, Jaewon turned the corner, two coffees in hand, his steps easy and unhurried. There was a sleep-tousled edge to his hair that no comb had quite fixed, and the glint in his eyes was half-exhausted, half-amused.

But he looked good. So good. Like someone who had exhaled something heavy and hadn’t inhaled it back.

He stopped in front of Kang-hyuk and held out a cup. “Your coffee. Black. Bitter. Emotionally repressed.”

Kang-hyuk accepted it without flinching. “And yours?”

“Honey hazelnut,” Jaewon said proudly. “Like a decent human being.”

Kang-hyuk glanced down. “There’s whipped cream.”

“It’s a personality trait now.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a beat.

People passed by in the corridor. A nurse wheeled a child in a wheelchair. A young doctor dropped his notes and cursed under his breath.

But in that quiet bubble by the window, Kang-hyuk and Jaewon stood like they were still on a villa porch with the ocean out in front of them. The coffee machine hissed like seafoam.

“Feels strange,” Jaewon murmured eventually, “being back.”

“Yeah.”

“But not bad-strange.”

Kang-hyuk tilted his head, studying him. “You alright?”

Jaewon nodded. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

A pause. Then, “You?”

Kang-hyuk’s gaze dropped to their hands—his holding the coffee, Jaewon’s brushing lightly against his coat sleeve. He could still feel the ghost of Jaewon’s breath on his shoulder from that sleepless night under the stars.

“I didn’t think I could come back like this,” Kang-hyuk said softly. “Still… myself.”

“Jeju didn’t fix everything,” Jaewon said gently, “but I think it gave us permission to stop running.”

Kang-hyuk let that settle. His chest swelled—not with anxiety, but something warm. Something like courage.

Before he could reply, chaos slammed into them from the side.

“There you are!”

Jang-Mi swept into view like a hurricane in scrubs, holding a clipboard and glaring like she was personally offended by their happiness. “You two are glowing,” she hissed. “You’re radiating. Did you hold hands under moonlight? Make out on the beach? Adopt a stray cat together and name it ‘Destiny’?”

Kang-hyuk blinked. “We… sat under a tree?”

“That’s basically a honeymoon.”

Before he could mount a defense, Dong-Ju shuffled into view from behind a vending machine, dark circles under his eyes. “What did I miss? Did they confess under fireworks or something?”

“Technically,” Jaewon said under his breath.

Dong-ju gasped like he’d been personally blessed.

“Oh my God, they’re soft-launching love in the middle of the cardiac wing.”

“You’re all deeply unwell,” Kang-hyuk muttered.

Jang-Mi snorted. “And you’re in denial about how soft you’ve become.”

“Speak for yourselves,” said Gyeong-Won, emerging with a sleepy yawn. “I dreamed I was in Jeju again. The watermelon was talking to me. Told me to never return to Seoul.”

Everyone paused.

“Don’t ask,” he added.

Jaewon just laughed. A small, bright sound that caught in Kang-hyuk’s chest like light cracking through a window.

Then Jaewon turned toward him, eyes still twinkling, and lowered his voice. “Hey.”

Kang-hyuk looked back.

“Close your hand.”

Confused, Kang-hyuk obeyed—and Jaewon slid something small into his palm.

He opened it.

The shell necklace.

Faded tan and white, still threaded through with the same thin rope from Jeju. Warm from Jaewon’s pocket.

“You wore it this morning,” Kang-hyuk said quietly.

“Now it’s your turn,” Jaewon murmured. “Keep it close. Just for today.”

Kang-hyuk’s fingers closed around it slowly. Deliberately.

And he realized—he didn’t feel the weight of memory in it.

He felt the weight of home.

Of continuing.

“You came back with the sea,” Jaewon said softly. “Even here… I can feel it.”

Kang-hyuk turned to face him. “You’re the one who made it stay.”

Their fingers brushed as they reached for the same clipboard. Neither of them pulled away.

And in that hallway—just another Monday, another shift, another beginning—they didn’t need to say anything more.

They didn’t need to kiss. Or promise. Or explain.

The promise was in the silence.

In the bracelets around their wrists. In the shell pressed between Kang-hyuk’s fingers. In the way they moved through the world now—together.

Under fluorescent lights, the ocean had not left them. And neither had love.

Chapter Text

That night, Seoul felt quieter than it had any right to be.

Maybe it was just the hour—past midnight, when the city caught its breath. Perhaps it was the hum of familiarity returning to the walls of their apartment. The way the air smelled like detergent and rain.

Or maybe… it was the way Jaewon stood barefoot in the kitchen, stirring instant ramyeon with one hand and absentmindedly humming a song Kang-hyuk didn’t know. Hair still damp from his shower. Hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Home.

Kang-hyuk leaned against the doorframe and just… watched.

Watched like he’d been gone a long time, and was still trying to believe he’d made it back.

Jaewon looked up. “Stop brooding. The water’s not dramatic enough to warrant that expression.”

Kang-hyuk huffed. “You’re humming.”

“I hum when I’m happy.”

There was no irony in it. No teasing. Just a simple truth.

Kang-hyuk crossed the kitchen slowly, wrapping his arms around Jaewon’s waist from behind. His chin rested lightly on Jaewon’s shoulder.

“I didn’t think we’d get this,” he murmured.

“And now that we do?”

Kang-hyuk’s voice was steady. “I’m going to protect it.”

Jaewon reached over to turn off the stove. “Good. Because I plan on annoying you every day for the rest of your life.”

Kang-hyuk smiled into his skin. “I’m counting on it.”

Later, when they were curled up on the couch with half-eaten ramyeon and a playlist looping from the Jeju road trip, Jaewon disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a small box.

“What’s that?” Kang-hyuk asked.

“New toothbrushes. Matching ones,” Jaewon said with mock solemnity. “For domestic excellence.”

“And this?”

He pulled out two seashell necklaces—theirs—now looped carefully onto a small frame with a handwritten note inside: “We came back. Let’s keep coming back.”

Kang-hyuk stared at it for a long moment. Then took the frame, stood, and placed it next to the bookshelf—between a medical textbook and a ridiculous ceramic duck Gyeong-won had gifted them as a joke.

Perfect.

They didn’t say much after that.

Didn’t need to.

That night, they fell asleep with the window cracked open and the city breathing around them. As if waiting.

Because peace never lasts long in their world.

And outside their window, the first storm clouds were gathering over the horizon.

---

The morning began with sunlight pouring golden across the windows of Hankuk National University Hospital’s trauma center, scattering itself across polished floors and the faint glint of metal trays. Somewhere beyond the glass, Seoul stirred awake—buses yawning into motion, students clutching coffee, radios humming from open storefronts. A city still unaware it stood on the edge of collapse.

Inside the trauma center, the mood was deceptively light.

“I swear to god, if you brought me another syrup-drowned sugar slushie pretending to be coffee—”

“It’s trauma fuel,” Dong-Ju declared, cradling his iced caramel monstrosity like a newborn. “Don’t be bitter just because your soul is as black as your Americano.”

Jang-Mi plopped down beside him, her badge slightly crooked and her hair tied back in a messy bun. “You two argue like this every day. I’m starting to think it’s flirting.”

“It’s not,” Kang-hyuk muttered, eyes glued to the tablet in his hand. CT scans scrolled past beneath his fingers, his brows furrowed with that signature blend of exhaustion and focus that never seemed to leave him. His coffee sat untouched, cooling by his elbow.

Jaewon glanced over from the nurse station, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Did you sleep?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

“Professor, at this rate, you’re going to code before your next resident does.”

“I’m fine,” Kang-hyuk said, but his voice was hoarse, his eyes a little too red. Still, the moment the trauma pager chirped, he straightened like a wire pulled taut.

“Incoming patient—mid-40s male, motorcycle accident,” the intercom crackled. “ETA three minutes.”

The mood shifted instantly.

Kang-hyuk moved like water through the chaos—issuing orders, scanning the room, watching the clock. Jaewon followed him through the trauma bay, gloves already snapped on, eyes focused.

When the paramedics burst through the double doors with a stretcher, the team was ready.

“Name’s Lee Min-jae,” the paramedic called over the commotion. “High-speed crash near Dongdaemun. Dislocated shoulder, right flank laceration, GCS fifteen. No helmet.”

“Vitals?” Kang-hyuk asked, taking position at the head of the bed.

“BP stable. HR elevated—he’s in pain.”

“Gyeong-Won, let’s get a portable X-ray. Jang-mi, trauma set up. Jaewon, start FAST. Let’s make sure he’s not bleeding into his abdomen.”

Jaewon moved into position beside the stretcher, his voice gentle. “Mr. Lee, we’re going to take care of you, okay? You’re in good hands.”

The man nodded weakly, eyes glassy with pain.

For a moment, everything was textbook. Calm. Controlled.

And then—

The floor rumbled.

At first, it was subtle—a strange vibration underfoot, like the hum of a passing train. Jaewon looked up instinctively. A soft tremor passed through the room. Monitors flickered.

“Did someone—was that…?” Dong-ju started to ask.

Then the tremor grew.

The ceiling creaked. A clipboard slid off the nurse station desk and hit the floor with a sharp smack.

Jaewon’s pulse spiked. “Was that an aftershock—?”

No.

This was different.

The building groaned.

And then it hit.

A deafening roar ripped through the hospital as the ground heaved beneath them. The trauma bay lurched to the side like a ship struck broadside.

People screamed.

IV stands toppled. Lights swung violently overhead. A metal tray clattered across the room, crashing into the wall. The walls shuddered. Ceiling panels cracked. Dust rained down like snow.

“EVERYONE GET DOWN!” Kang-hyuk’s voice boomed, cutting through the chaos like a whip.

He grabbed Jaewon and yanked him down beneath the trauma bed just as a light fixture crashed where they had been standing. Jang-Mi pulled a nurse under a counter. Gyeong-Won dove over a patient, shielding her body with his own. Dong-Ju clung to a support column as the ground bucked again.

Screams echoed down the halls. Somewhere near the ER entrance, glass shattered. An elderly man’s walker flew across the lobby. The power cut out with a loud snap, plunging the hospital into semi-darkness—only the blood-red emergency lights flickered to life, casting everything in an eerie, apocalyptic glow.

Jaewon couldn’t breathe. Not from dust. Not from fear.

But from the sound.

A deep, bone-cracking grinding—like the planet itself was being split open.

A woman shrieked in the visitor corridor. The gurney wheels screeched. The building swayed. Another panel burst open. A wall cracked.

Jaewon turned his head under the bed and saw Kang-hyuk beside him, bracing one hand against the metal legs, the other gripping Jaewon’s arm tightly. His jaw was clenched so hard it trembled. But his eyes—his eyes were focused.

“Stay with me,” Kang-hyuk muttered. “You hear me?”

Jaewon nodded, fingers digging into the floor.

Minutes stretched like hours.

Four.

Five.

Six.

A final quake, sharp and punishing, like a slap to the earth’s surface.

And then—silence.

The kind that rang in the ears.

Jaewon opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Then—The sound of alarms. The wail of emergency sirens. The drip of water from a burst pipe.

Jaewon slowly sat up.

Kang-hyuk was already moving.

“Head count!” he called, scanning the trauma bay. “If you’re conscious, respond!”

“Gyeong-Won—bruised shoulder, but okay!”

“Jang-Mi here! Nurse Kwon’s bleeding from the scalp, I’ve got her!"

“Dong-Ju—here! Visitors are injured—cut from shattered glass!”

Jaewon turned toward the patient on the gurney—Lee Min-jae. Still breathing. Alive.

“We’ve got him,” Jaewon breathed.

But everything else?

Not okay.

Cracks snaked along the walls. Water trickled from the ceiling vents. Entire shelves had collapsed, med carts overturned, the hallway thick with dust and screams.

Kang-hyuk stood in the center of it all—shirt stained with debris, sweat on his brow, face streaked with ash. But he was upright. Unmoving. Commanding.

“We switch to field triage,” he ordered. “Manual vitals. Prioritize by bleeding and head injuries. Get everyone who can walk into the courtyard. Trauma team, you stay. We hold this line.”

He turned to Jaewon, eyes locking like steel into steel.

“This isn’t over.”

Jaewon swallowed. “No, it’s just starting.”

Outside, the wail of citywide disaster sirens pierced the morning.

And Seoul began to burn.

---

There was no breath between the tremor and the aftermath—no clean line between “before” and “after.” It was like falling through a mirror. One moment, the hospital was a state-of-the-art trauma facility. The next, it was a battlefield.

The emergency generator groaned to life, bathing the trauma center in a flickering yellow light that made the blood on the floor gleam like oil. Smoke and dust lingered in the air, bitter in the lungs. Somewhere beyond the ER bay, a fire alarm wailed, unheeded. The air was too loud, too bright, too crowded with the kind of panic that was cellular. It vibrated inside every rib cage.

Jaewon pressed gauze into the side of a young girl’s forehead, her sobs hiccupping as she bled. Behind him, the stretcher rows had doubled, then tripled. Visitors with cracked ribs. Nurses with broken fingers. Orderlies carried patients who had been staffed just thirty minutes ago. Their white coats were now stained with blood.

The hospital was swamped.

“Bed 6 needs priority!” Jang-Mi shouted, pulling on a pair of bloodstained gloves. “His vitals are crashing—we need more hands here!”

“I’m out of syringes,” Gyeong-Won barked. “Where the hell is our med cart?”

“Gone! Storage collapsed!”

Jaewon grabbed another IV kit and dashed to the next gurney, ducking as ceiling dust rained down again. The woman on the bed was hyperventilating, her blouse soaked with blood from a glass shard embedded deep in her chest. He pressed down hard to stop the bleeding, murmuring comfort in a voice he barely recognized as his own.

All around them, the ER overflowed like a dam breaking. The hallways were flooded with the injured. The orthopedic wing had been turned into a makeshift triage ward. The cardiology department was being used to treat lacerations. Every gurney. Every chair. Every flat surface was now a treatment table.

Even the staff were patient's.

Dr. Ahn, a cardiothoracic fellow, had a fractured femur and was now lying on a surgical table while another intern set his leg. One of the pharmacists had a concussion. The head nurse from OB-GYN had passed out from dehydration after carrying four pregnant women down the fire escape.

It was a war zone.

And the trauma team was the only functioning unit left standing.

“Is this what war looks like?” Dong-Ju muttered, hands elbow-deep in a thoracic wound.

“No,” Kang-hyuk answered flatly. “In war, at least you know who the enemy is.”

He didn’t look up from the suture line he was stitching closed. His sleeves were soaked. His face was carved in stone. Blood crusted on the collar of his scrubs. He hadn’t sat down once. Hadn’t even blinked longer than a second.

Jaewon watched him work from across the room, steady and unbreakable, and wondered how much longer that would last.

The news had already reached the outside world.

A broken TV screen on the wall flickered with static, but audio still came through in spurts.

“…5.8 on the Richter scale… one of the most powerful earthquakes in Korea’s recorded history…”

“…Seoul metropolitan hospitals reporting maximum capacity…”

“…Hankuk National University Hospital—located near the epicenter—is believed to have taken structural damage. Communication is partially down. Aerial photos show significant internal collapse…”

The camera cut to shaky helicopter footage—dust clouds over the roof, ambulance lines that stretched for miles, tents being assembled on the outer lot. Sirens in every direction.

“Turn it off,” Kang-hyuk muttered without glancing up. “We don’t need panic in surround sound.”

And then—The doors burst open.

“Chief Han!” Jang-Mi called, breathless. “You’re—wait, what—Are you okay?!”

Chief Han looked like hell. His shirt was ripped, hair wild, face smudged with soot. A shallow gash ran down the side of his temple. But he was upright. And angry.

“Give me a status report,” he barked. “Now.”

Kang-hyuk stood. “The trauma wing is overwhelmed. We’ve got over 200 patients. Electricity’s cut. Water’s unstable. Minimal imaging capabilities. Communications are partially restored but still spotty—cell signal comes in waves. At least three staff members are critical. One nurse is unconscious. We’ve sent calls for backup from regional units, but—”

“—They’re just as swamped,” Chief Han finished, jaw tight. “It’s not just us. We’ve got citywide collapse, infrastructure damage, and worse—fire departments are reporting water main ruptures.”

That sent a cold ripple through the room.

“We don’t have enough beds,” Jaewon said quietly.

“We don’t have enough of anything,” Jang-Mi whispered.

Kang-hyuk looked over his shoulder. “We still have hands. That’s enough.”

And then—

Bang!

The trauma bay doors slammed open again. A resident stumbled in—his face pale, soaked in sweat, eyes wide with a kind of terror that told Jaewon everything before he even opened his mouth.

“S-Sun-Sunbae—Professor, sir—! Basement levels—!”

Everyone froze.

“What happened?” Kang-hyuk demanded.

The resident gulped. “We tried checking the parking basement for additional stretchers. But—it's gone. The entire B2 floor has collapsed. Beams are down, the entire thing’s in rubble. And worse—there’s… flooding. Water—it’s rising.”

“What?” Jaewon said sharply, heart lurching.

“There’s a ruptured main. Or a pipe burst. We’re not sure. But it’s bad. It’s fast. The whole floor’s becoming a tank.”

Jang-Mi clapped a hand over her mouth. “There are people down there.”

“There were maintenance staff checking the wiring. Two interns are trying to bring supplies. Some patients—ambulance drop-offs, overflow. They never came back.”

For a second, no one spoke.

And then Kang-hyuk was already moving.

“Get ropes. Headlamps. Anything waterproof.”

“We don’t even know how stable it is down there!” Dong-Ju protested. “There could be aftershocks!”

“We don’t have time to wait. If we don’t move now, they'll drown.”

"Then let me come with you, Professor." Dong-Ju declared boldly.

"No! You're staying here No.2."

“I’ll go with you,” Jaewon said immediately.

“No.” Kang-hyuk’s voice cracked like thunder.

Jaewon turned to him, stunned. “What—why?!”

“You’ve been up since yesterday. You’re not steady. Your hands were shaking twenty minutes ago.”

“It’s fine now.”

“No, it’s not,” Kang-hyuk snapped. “You’re not going down there. That’s an order.”

Jaewon stared at him, heat rising behind his eyes. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”

“It’s not about you. It’s about them. I need someone I trust up here, keeping this place together if I don’t come back.” 

The room went still.

Jaewon’s chest ached like a bruise. “Don’t say that.”

But Kang-hyuk was already gathering gear, his jaw set. “Chief Han, I need one of the surgical fellows, three able-bodied volunteers, and someone with climbing experience.”

“I’ll send who I can spare,” Chief Han said gravely.

As Kang-hyuk turned, Jaewon stepped forward and grabbed his wrist.

“Hyung—”

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, the war zone disappeared. No alarms. No blood. No chaos. Just the look on Kang-hyuk’s face—steeled and sorrowful, like he already knew something he couldn’t say.

“I have to go,” Kang-hyuk whispered.

And then he pulled away.

Jaewon didn’t chase him.

He stood frozen, hands clenched, heart thudding against ribs that felt too tight.

Behind him, another stretcher wheeled in, trailing blood. A child this time.

And Jaewon—swallowed his grief and turned back to the line of the dying. Because someone had to keep the rest of the world standing.

Chapter Text

There was a silence in the stairwell that didn’t belong in a hospital.

It wasn’t the kind of quiet that came from absence—it was the kind that echoed. Thick. Swollen. Waiting to break.

Kang-hyuk gripped the railing and stepped down, boots thudding against cement slick with soot and water. The beam of his headlamp cut a narrow path through the dark, illuminating dust-choked air and shattered plaster dangling like dead ivy from the ceiling. Behind him, the group followed in grim, practiced silence: Yoon, a trauma surgical fellow who had once trained under him; two security officers armed with ropes and a fire axe; and a volunteer firefighter whose gear still bore ash from another collapsed building he’d just come from.

Nobody said a word.

The stairwell groaned under its own weight.

Every few seconds, they stopped—listened. Not for voices. But for shifting. The kind of creak that meant load-bearing beams were cracking. That something overhead had decided it no longer wanted to hold.

They reached B1. Still intact. Scarred, but breathing.

And then B2.

Or what was left of it.

The metal door was bent backward like tinfoil. The walls had split open in jagged veins. Rebar curled out from the wreckage like bone through skin, and just beyond the threshold—hell.

There was no floor. Not really. Just a slope of rubble, glass, and broken pipes where the ceiling had caved in and taken everything with it. A sheet of collapsed scaffolding leaned against what used to be a hallway. Smoke curled from a punctured transformer box in the corner, sparking intermittently, casting flashes of blue like lightning underwater.

And at the bottom—water.

Rising water.

Dark. Reflective. Creeping up the wreckage like it had all the time in the world. The beam of Kang-hyuk’s flashlight skimmed across the surface and caught on something—small. Shivering. A child’s flashlight, bobbing half-submerged in the distance. Still flickering. Still on.

One of the volunteers that Chief Han prepared, Park Cha-Yoon, exhaled shakily. “Jesus.”

“No time,” Kang-hyuk said. His voice was flat steel.

He dropped to one knee and fastened a rope around a pipe overhead. The firefighter followed immediately, anchoring the second line. The moment the knots were tested, Kang-hyuk swung down into the chaos.

The water hit his thighs. Freezing. He didn’t flinch.

“Keep the ropes tight,” he called. “Watch for shifting beams. One wrong move and the ceiling comes down.”

“Yes, Professor.”

They pressed forward slowly, bodies bent low, the water thick with floating debris—files, gloves, fragments of tile, a shattered medical cart. The walls moaned. Something overhead popped like a rib cracking, and dust trickled in sheets from the ceiling.

Still, Kang-hyuk moved.

Because there were people down here.

And he had to believe at least some were still alive.

---

UPSTAIRS - TRAUMA BAY

“Doctor Yang!”

Jaewon’s head snapped up. “What is it?”

“We’ve got a compound fracture outside! Left leg, arterial bleed!”

“I’ll be there in two—compress and elevate, don’t move him!”

He turned, grabbing a suture kit without breaking stride. Blood painted the floor in streaks now—old blood, new blood, everything blending together in shades of red he couldn’t wash off fast enough. His hands burned from overuse, knuckles raw beneath his gloves. But he kept moving. Kept working. Kept breathing.

Because if he stopped—if he let himself pause for even a second—he would hear the creaking concrete two floors below, and wonder if Kang-hyuk was still breathing.

A monitor beeped wildly. Someone shouted. A gurney was kicked over by accident. Jang-Mi barked orders from the hallway, her voice frayed but commanding. Dong-Ju passed by, covered in blood, his glasses cracked but still in place.

It was chaos. But it was controlled.

For now.

Jaewon passed the central rack and caught a flicker of light—Kang-hyuk’s spare headlamp, still blinking on the metal tray where he’d left it behind. The strap was torn. The bulb barely glowed. He picked it up instinctively.

It was warm.

Still warm.

He pressed it into his coat pocket with trembling fingers, like storing a promise.

---

B2 LEVEL – FLOODED WING

The air was growing colder.

Not from the water—but from the sense of time running out.

Kang-hyuk waded through waist-high floodwater, flashlight in one hand, the other bracing Eun-ah’s stretcher as the team navigated back toward the rope line. Every footstep sank into sludge and debris. Metal fragments floated by like shark fins. The water wasn’t just water anymore—it was weight. Every second, it crept higher.

Behind him, the firefighter was muttering a countdown under his breath.

“Ten minutes. Maybe eight.”

Yoon was already ahead, guiding the child up toward the rigged pulley system they’d jury-rigged from an old ceiling pipe. One of the security officers kept glancing upward—at the way the ceiling hung like an exhausted lung, threatening to exhale for good.

Then—

CRACK!

It was sharp.

Not loud. But wrong.

Kang-hyuk froze. His hand went up instinctively. Everyone stilled.

The water trembled around their waists. The air shifted. And then—

BOOM!

The walls didn’t shake.

They lurched.

Aftershock.

The whole earth twisted on its spine. The sound of it—steel groaning, concrete tearing, pipes shrieking—was unlike anything Kang-hyuk had ever heard. The flashlight in his grip danced wildly as the ground beneath them buckled. Water splashed against the walls like a wave hitting a ship's hull.

“AFTERSHOCK!” someone screamed. “BRACE!”

SCREECH—CRACK—CRASH!

The light fixture above them exploded. Sparks cascaded like fireworks into the flood.

“KANG-HYUK—MOVE!”

Yoon turned, too late.

The far end of the floor collapsed in a roar. The ceiling above gave way. Chunks of drywall and scaffolding came loose in a chain reaction. A steel beam tore through the floor with a shriek, severing the rope line. The force of it sent water surging in all directions.

Kang-hyuk turned on instinct—shoved Eun-ah’s stretcher forward with one brutal push toward Yoon—

And the ground beneath him disappeared.

He didn’t fall straight down. He slid—dragged sideways as the concrete crumbled beneath his boots. His legs went under first. Then his waist. He reached out—caught nothing but air.

Then—He was gone.

Swallowed whole by black water.

Swallowed by the dark.

---

UPSTAIRS - TRAUMA CENTER

It started as a tremble.

A subtle vibration in the walls. Monitors flickering. Glass bottles clinking softly on the medicine trays.

And then—The aftershock hit.

A violent jolt that rocked the trauma bay like a slammed door. Patients screamed. A tray of tools crashed to the floor with a metallic clatter. Ceiling tiles loosened and fell in chunks. Jang-Mi nearly lost her balance. Jaewon grabbed the side of the gurney he was working over, eyes flashing upward.

“Is it another one?!” Gyeong-won shouted.

“Yes!” Dong-Ju yelled back, shielding a patient with his body. “Shit—aftershock!”

Across the room, alarms screamed. Oxygen tanks rolled across the floor. The emergency lights flickered again—orange-red shadows sweeping the blood-soaked walls like flames.

And then—Chief Han burst into the trauma bay.

He looked like he’d run the whole hospital to get there. His coat half-buttoned, face pale, one hand still holding a walkie.

Everyone turned.

Jaewon stepped forward.

“Chief—?”

Chief Han’s jaw clenched. He looked at Jaewon—and then past him, to the whole team.

The room went still.

Very still.

“B2 collapsed during the aftershock,” Chief Han said. His voice was gravel and smoke. “Water’s rising. The rescue team got one child out. But…”

He didn’t need to say the rest.

Jaewon’s stomach dropped. The breath left his chest like he’d been struck.

“Where’s Professor Kang!?” he asked, but the words were already crumbling in his throat.

Chief Han lowered his walkie. “He went under.”

Silence. Deafening.

“Under?” Jang-Mi echoed, her voice cracking.

“The floor gave out beneath him. We’ve lost visual. No contact.”

“He’s not…” Dong-Ju trailed off, shaking his head. “He’s not—he can’t be—”

“I sent two back in to look for him,” Chief Han said. “But it’s not stable. If we send more, we risk losing them too.”

Nobody moved.

The trauma center—the heart of the hospital, the lifeline for hundreds of patients—had just frozen.

And Jaewon—

Jaewon couldn’t hear anything.

The world around him blurred.

He didn’t remember crossing the room. Didn’t remember grabbing the walkie from Chief Han’s hand with blood-streaked fingers.

But then it was pressed to his mouth.

And he was saying Kang-hyuk’s name.

Over and over.

“Professor Kang! This is Jaewon. Do you copy!?”

No answer.

Just static.

“If you can hear me… I need you to respond. Please. I need—”

Nothing.

The silence was a punch to the chest.

He lowered the walkie. His arms trembled. The team around him stood as if in mourning—doctors, nurses, interns, every last one of them wearing the same expression:

Grief frozen in real-time.

“Hyung…” Jaewon whispered. “No. No, no, no, not like this.”

Chapter Text

B2 Level, Submerged Section

Darkness wasn’t just the absence of light.

It was a weight. A pressure. A silence so absolute it had shape and gravity.

Kang-hyuk came to with the taste of metal in his mouth and something heavy pinning his shoulder. His ears rang. The world was sideways. Cold water sloshed past his lips, choking his breath. He was floating—or sinking—it was impossible to tell.

Something sparked in the murky dark. Instinct.

He rolled.

Pain lanced through his back like a blade, sharp and immediate, but he bit it down. Couldn't scream. Couldn’t waste air.

His flashlight was gone.

The walkie-talkie buzzed faintly, submerged but still crackling somewhere nearby. The emergency light on his vest blinked red—barely visible.

He pushed himself up. And screamed in his head. His right side—ribs—something was wrong. A pressure, like a rod jammed between the bones. He ignored it. Couldn't afford to acknowledge it. There was too much water. Too little time.

And then—through the water, through the static of debris and ruin—

A voice.

“Professor Kang! This is Jaewon. Do you copy!?”

Kang-hyuk froze.

The walkie. Somewhere behind him.

He turned. Crawled back through the half-submerged floor. Fingers searched blindly, knocking through shattered glass, tubing, and a shattered monitor—

There.

The walkie, dented but alive, stuck under a half-fallen cabinet.

He pulled it free, clicked the call button. It sparked. Died. He smacked it. Hard.

Crackle.

“Please. I need—”

His fingers tightened.

“Jaewon,” Kang-hyuk rasped, mouth against the speaker grill. “I’m here.”

The static didn’t change. No sign he was heard.

But he said it again anyway. Softer this time.

Like a prayer.

“I’m here.”

And then he stood, pulled the patient over his shoulder with one arm, choking back the scream it tore from his ribs.

He moved toward what little light remained. And above him, the hospital kept breathing.

---

Trauma Center, Twelve Hours In

The walkie didn’t answer.

It hadn’t in ten minutes.

Jaewon kept it in his hand anyway. He didn’t have time to break. But god—he wanted to.

“Jaewon!”

He turned.

Jang-Mi’s face was pale. “We need you. Bed fourteen’s seizing.”

He nodded. Moved. Just like that.

Because if he paused for too long—if he let the image of Kang-hyuk falling into darkness stay in his mind a second longer—he’d stop functioning.

He couldn't stop functioning.

Every room in the hospital was full. Supplies were running low. The blood banks were down to critical levels. They had no operating imaging. The generator could go at any moment. People were dying every ten minutes.

And Kang-hyuk was missing.

Not dead.

Not dead.

Jaewon gripped that belief with the same white-knuckled grip he used on the scalpel in his next surgery.

He ran trauma code after trauma code.

He closed a chest wound. Restarted a failing heart. Wrote supply lists for Chief Han.

And through it all—he kept listening for that voice.

“He’s not answering?” Gyeong-Won asked quietly, passing behind him with a chart.

Jaewon didn’t look up. “No.”

Dong-Ju had gone silent since hearing the news. Even Jang-Mi’s usual bark had softened to a whisper.

The team was fraying.

And Jaewon was the only thing holding them together.

But inside?

He was already shattering.

---

The hallway he was in used to be the surgical equipment transfer line.

Now, it was a tunnel of collapse.

Kang-hyuk's right leg was starting to go numb. His ribs were cracked. At least two—maybe three. The skin beneath his shirt was tight with bruising. Every breath made the world tilt. But he pressed forward.

The emergency hatch at the far end was sealed.

But there—an access panel. Just above the waterline.

If he could get her up there… if he could climb up after…

He swallowed blood.

Not enough time.

But he could do one thing.

He clipped the rope from his belt around her waist. Then used the last flare in his pocket, lit it, and shoved it through the side slats where someone—anyone—upstairs might see it.

He leaned down to the walkie again.

“Jaewon…”

Static.

Kang-hyuk’s voice cracked.

“If I don’t make it out, tell them—no. No. Don’t tell them anything. Just tell them I went down swinging.”

He laid his head back, exhaled, and lost consciousness again.

---

“Jaewon! A signal!”

Jaewon whipped around.

Jang-Mi was sprinting in from the west corridor.

“They saw it—a flare, near the northwest sub-access hatch!”

Jaewon’s heart nearly stopped. “Where?”

“From above—they saw red light through the collapse seams near radiology. There’s someone down there. They think—”

“—They think it’s him.”

Jaewon ran.

He didn’t wait for protocol. He didn’t wait for permission. He snatched the emergency medical kit from the wall, slammed through two sets of doors, boots hitting tile like gunfire.

He could hear Dong-Ju behind him. Gyeong-Won. Jang-Mi.

The team was moving again. Because Kang-hyuk wasn’t dead. He was fighting. And Jaewon was going to tear the entire earth open if he had to—to get him back.

---

The emergency lights bled red against the dust-fogged air as Jaewon shoved through the main trauma corridor, the scent of smoke, antiseptic, and blood clinging to his skin like second skin. His ears rang—not from noise, but from the absence of it. From the radio silence. From the scream he hadn’t let out.

The second aftershock had struck like a predator. No warning. No mercy. And somewhere beneath them, Kang-hyuk had been swallowed whole.

“Stabilizers are down,” Chief Han barked from the command table hastily assembled in the ruined conference hall. “That last shift knocked out the entire north column. I need visuals. I need a structural engineer. I need a god-damn miracle—”

“Where’s the access?” Jaewon interrupted.

Chief Han’s head snapped toward him. “You’re not going down there.”

“I’m not asking for permission,” Jaewon said, voice too calm. That terrifying sort of calm that only came when someone had stopped being afraid of consequences.

“The basement hasn’t been cleared—”

“He’s still down there.”

Chief Han hesitated.

“I know you care about him,” he said, quieter. “But if we lose another lead in that death trap, what happens to the team? To this hospital? To the hundreds of people still bleeding upstairs?”

Jaewon didn’t answer. He just grabbed the pack Dong-ju had prepped with flares, field bandages, and a handheld transceiver. Gyeong-won and Jang-mi flanked him, silent and pale as they loaded rope coils and thermal blankets. They didn’t try to stop him.

Because they all knew—

If it had been Jaewon down there, Kang-hyuk would’ve already torn through concrete with his bare hands to reach him.

Thirty minutes earlier

Kang-hyuk woke up again with water in his lungs.

He remembered falling.

The thundercrack of the aftershock, the cold sting of steel splitting open, and the terrible sensation of the world tilting underneath his feet. Then nothing.

He surfaced with a ragged gasp, flailing blindly in the dark, lungs burning. Something hard struck his shoulder as he kicked up—debris, sharp and unrelenting. Pain radiated down his side. Broken ribs. Maybe a shoulder fracture. But he was breathing.

Barely.

Around him, only the sound of dripping water and the gurgle of a rising flood.

He blinked, swallowing a curse as he rolled onto a slanted support beam. There was barely a pocket of air here, trapped beneath concrete and rebar. Something creaked. Another tremor shuddered through the structure. Dust rained from above.

A groan.

It wasn’t his.

“Hello?” Kang-hyuk turned sharply. “Is someone there?”

A weak cough answered him.

“Here!” he shouted hoarsely, pushing himself through the slick water toward the voice. A flicker of movement—then he saw it. A young orderly. Barely out of his twenties. Pinned beneath a chunk of ceiling, his lower leg twisted unnaturally.

“Fuck,” Kang-hyuk hissed. “Okay—don’t move. Don’t move, I’m coming.”

He crawled, every inch of his body screaming. His right leg was numb. He could taste copper. But he kept moving. Because this boy was someone’s brother. Someone’s son. And Kang-hyuk refused to leave him behind.

“I need you to stay awake, alright?” Kang-hyuk murmured, crouching beside him. “Tell me your name.”

“H-Ha-jin,” the boy rasped.

“Alright, Ha-jin. Listen to me.” Kang-hyuk pressed gauze to the bleeding wound on his chest. “You’re going to be fine. You just have to hold on.”

Another aftershock rumbled. The wall beside them split with a crack. Water sloshed higher.

“We’re out of time,” Kang-hyuk muttered. He spotted a rusted panel barely held up by a broken pipe. Beyond it—maybe—an exit. Maybe nothing. He had no way to know.

Then—static.

His fingers closed around a broken walkie-talkie lodged between rubble. He twisted the dial, whispered into it.

“Basement rescue—this is Kang-hyuk. I have a survivor. Repeat—I’m with a survivor. We’re trapped under the north wing. Water’s rising. Visibility zero. Need extraction—fast.”

He let go of the button, waited.

Nothing.

He tried again.

“Kang-hyuk to trauma command. Can anyone hear me? Jaewon—if you’re there—”

The walkie hissed. Then,

“PROFESSOR?!”

Kang-hyuk froze.

“I hear you!” Jaewon’s voice cracked through, strained and breathless. “God—Professor, are you okay?”

Kang-hyuk stared at the metal ceiling above them. A leak was forming. He pressed the button again.

“I’m alive. One survivor is with me. It’s bad, Jaewon.”

Pause.

“Are you hurt?”

Silence.

Then, low, “Nothing serious.”

But his ribs told another story. His knee was swelling. He couldn’t lift his left arm.

“Professor,” Jaewon said. “Don’t lie to me.”

Kang-hyuk closed his eyes. “Just get here fast.”

“I’m coming down myself.”

“No—”

But the line went dead.

---

Upstairs

“Stabilize the beams in the substation tunnel!” Chief Han ordered.

Jang-Mi crouched beside the support scanner, tears streaking her ash-covered cheeks. “We found a clear path under Triage B. But if there’s one more shift, it’ll cave.”

“I’m not letting him die in the dark,” Jaewon said coldly, checking the straps on his helmet. “You want to stop me? You’ll have to knock me out.”

“Damn it, Sunbae—” Dong-Ju reached out, but Jaewon was already gone.

---

The tunnel was more grave than the hallway.

He moved slowly, boots splashing through water, flashlight cutting shadows into stone. Every breath was like sucking in steel wool. And every sound—every distant creak or crack—sounded like it might be the last.

“Professor,” Jaewon whispered into the walkie. “Keep talking to me. Please.”

Static. Then—

“Still here.”

Jaewon clenched his jaw. “Good. Keep talking. Just like that. Tell me… tell me what the sky looked like yesterday.”

A broken chuckle. “Blue. The color of your scrubs. Ugly shade.”

Jaewon laughed once—wet, sharp.

Then he reached the collapse zone.

---

Somewhere beneath the wreckage of Hankuk Hospital, Sector B2

“Someone’s coming,” Ha-jin whispered, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

Kang-hyuk turned sharply, vision flickering at the edges. His lungs were raw. Pain throbbed up his side like wildfire—but he forced himself upright.

Then—A glint.

A flicker of light breaking through the dark like a blade.

And then—“PROFESSOR!”

The voice cut through the rubble like thunder through fog.

Kang-hyuk’s head snapped toward the sound. “Here!” he shouted hoarsely, throat torn from smoke and dust. “We’re here!”

The wreckage above them groaned.

Metal shrieked. Rock shifted. Then a crash of steel on stone as a rusted support beam was shoved aside—and suddenly, from the darkness above, a rope dropped down, coiled like a lifeline from heaven.

A figure lowered with it—dust-covered, soaked in grime and fury. Jaewon’s face emerged from the debris like a ghost from a war zone, wild with panic and relief, lips trembling, eyes red-rimmed and shining with unshed tears.

“You idiot,” Jaewon breathed as he dropped to his knees beside him, voice raw. “You promised not to be a hero.”

Kang-hyuk laughed—just a ragged exhale—but it was cut short by pain. “Guess I lied,” he rasped.

Jaewon’s hands were already moving, clinically assessing injuries despite the emotion threatening to splinter through him. His fingers trembled as they brushed along Kang-hyuk’s side and down his leg. Blood soaked through the soaked fabric. Kang-hyuk stiffened with a hiss of pain.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Kang-hyuk muttered, too quickly.

Jaewon stilled. “Don’t give me that.”

He reached again—and Kang-hyuk flinched. Reflexive. The sound that came out of him wasn’t loud, but it cut through Jaewon like a scalpel.

“…Where?”

Kang-hyuk’s jaw clenched. “Ribs. Shoulder. Leg. Don’t know how bad.”

Jaewon closed his eyes. The air was heavy between them. Then—

“Of course,” he whispered. “Of course it is. You don’t bleed like normal people, huh? You just… keep getting up. Even when you shouldn’t.”

“I’ll live.”

“Yeah?” Jaewon snapped under his breath, eyes glistening as he leaned closer. “You fucking better.”

The water was rising again. Another creak shivered through the floor as debris shifted above them. Ha-jin whimpered, semi-conscious.

“Rescue line is prepped!” a voice crackled through Jaewon’s walkie. “First haul—send the civilian!”

Jaewon nodded without looking away. “You hear that?” he whispered to Ha-jin. “You’re getting out of here.”

The boy blinked, dazed. Jaewon cupped the back of his neck, whispering reassurance, while Kang-hyuk helped him secure the straps with one good arm.

“Pull!” Jaewon barked up the tunnel.

The rope pulled taut. Ha-jin’s body disappeared slowly into the dark above.

Then—another tremor.

The ground beneath them gave a warning sigh, like the whole building was breathing too deeply. Jaewon cursed under his breath and turned back to Kang-hyuk, already hauling him up.

“No time,” came Jang-Mi’s voice, urgent. “We’re losing structural integrity. Go NOW!”

Kang-hyuk didn’t argue.

Didn’t say a word as Jaewon tightened the harness around them both, looped it through his own safety line, and crouched behind him.

He just felt the way Jaewon’s arms wrapped around his chest from behind, careful with his ribs, and how Jaewon whispered into the side of his neck,

“Hold on. Please.”

Then they rose—together—through the womb of concrete and ruin, away from the water, from the dark, from death.

---

Emergency Room

The moment the rope cleared the rubble, chaos erupted.

Floodlights flared, medics surged forward like a tide. Stretchers wheeled in, hands reached out—there were so many voices, so many commands.

But all Jaewon could see was Kang-hyuk.

His body, limp against him, was cold with shock. Blood soaked through his trauma suit. His lips were blue at the edges. His hand—still wrapped weakly around Jaewon’s wrist—never loosened.

“Vitals dipping! Get him on oxygen!”

“Chest trauma—possible hemopneumothorax!”

“He’s seizing—watch his airway—”

“Jaewon!” Dong-Ju appeared from the side, trying to help ease Kang-hyuk onto the gurney. “You need to—Jaewon, let go—”

But Jaewon couldn’t.

His knees were shaking.

Every muscle screamed to keep holding on. He watched Kang-hyuk’s eyes flutter shut as the monitors began beeping. Watched as nurses swarmed him. Watched as the ER doors slammed closed between them.

And then—Silence.

Jaewon stood there, soaked to the bone, blood on his palms, dust in his lungs.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Not until he felt a hand on his shoulder—Jang-Mi.

Soft. Wordless.

Then something cracked open inside him.

His shoulders shook. Once. Then again.

And Jaewon crumpled forward, one hand clutched over his mouth to keep from making a sound—but the other hung limp by his side, still shaking.

He didn’t sob. Not yet.

But his breath hitched like someone had split him from the inside. The weight of the last twelve hours finally crushed him at the knees.

And above him—through shattered glass and broken light fixtures—the trauma center that once buzzed with life now held its breath.

Because when Kang-hyuk fell, the whole world cracked with him.

Chapter Text

The lights didn’t flicker, but it felt like they did.

Somewhere, the intercom buzzed a name that wasn’t his. Footsteps blurred into each other, soles squeaking against linoleum, stretchers rattling down sterile corridors, someone’s pager going off in rapid succession. Life moved. Urgently. Brutally.

But Jaewon stayed still.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts. A tremor rattled in his lungs—not from cold, not anymore—but from the sheer violence of what he’d just survived. What they had barely survived.

He could still feel Kang-hyuk’s blood drying between the lines of his fingers, sticky and unreal. He could still feel the way Kang-hyuk’s body had slackened, just a little, the moment the ER doors had slammed them apart. His pulse had slowed. His breathing had stuttered.

“Jaewon,” someone called—too gently.

Jaewon didn’t answer.

The room spun. Just slightly. Like the Earth had tilted on its axis, and nobody else had noticed.

“Jaewon, please sit down—”

“I’m fine,” Jaewon murmured. His voice cracked like glass under pressure.

He wasn’t fine.

But how do you explain to someone that your world has been caving in in slow motion, piece by piece, and the final beam just broke?

He reached for the sink instead. His legs moved without grace, as if remembering how to carry him only by muscle memory. The cold water bit at his skin. He scrubbed harder. And harder. As if he just kept scrubbing, Kang-hyuk’s blood would vanish. As if blood could ever be that easy to let go of.

“Jaewon.” Jang-Mi’s voice, firmer now, closer. “Come on.”

“I need to see him,” he said.

“You can’t go in yet. They’re stabilizing him—”

“I need to see him.”

His voice rose. Just slightly. Just enough for the silence in the room to shift.

Jang-Mi stood beside him, her coat smudged, her hair undone, but her eyes—her eyes were calm. Steady. The kind of steadiness you learn only after watching enough people die.

“You know the protocol,” she said quietly. “He’s in surgery prep. You go in now, you’ll only be in the way.”

“In the way,” Jaewon repeated bitterly, as if the phrase itself was a wound.

Jang-Mi didn’t flinch. “They’ll call for you if—when—they need you.”

He turned then, finally looking at her. His eyes were red, not from crying but from sheer restraint. From holding it in. From carrying everything alone.

“I promised I’d keep him safe.”

She didn’t tell him it wasn’t his fault.

She didn’t say the usual lines: You did your best. He’s lucky you were there. You saved him.

Because she knew he wouldn’t hear them. Not right now. Not with the memory of Kang-hyuk’s blood still warm against his chest, not with the monitor’s flatline echo still trapped in his ears.

So instead, she stepped closer, rested a hand on his arm, and said nothing at all.

And that—more than anything—undid him.

---

Operating Room Hallway. Thirty Minutes Later.

The hallway outside OR 3 was bathed in cruel white light.

Time didn’t exist here. Only updates. Only waiting. Only the mechanical hiss of oxygen tanks and the faint beep of distant monitors.

Jaewon stood with his back to the wall, fists clenched so tightly the knuckles blanched. He hadn’t changed out of his disaster gear. Dust still clung to the collar of his coat, his name badge half-torn, his lanyard soaked. He looked like a soldier fresh from war.

And in many ways—he was.

He didn’t look up when the doors swung open. He only straightened when he heard Chief Han’s voice.

“We’re opening his chest,” Chief Han said briskly. “Collapsed lung, massive internal bleeding. Spleen’s gone. Multiple rib fractures. We’re still looking for the source of the abdominal bleed.”

Jaewon nodded once. “I’ll scrub in.”

Chief Han didn’t blink. “No.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“You’re compromised.”

“I’m his trauma attending. You need someone who knows his baseline—”

“You’re not going in,” Chief Han repeated, tone flat. Final. “You’re emotionally involved, Jaewon. You’re shaking.”

Jaewon took a step forward. “He’ll die if I don’t—”

“He’ll die if you go in and make a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap. But Chief Han didn’t flinch. He only looked at Jaewon with the cold, clear eyes of someone who’s already made a hundred calls like this—and regretted every single one.

“You wait,” he said. “You stay here. If we need you, we’ll call.”

And with that, he turned, disappearing through the swinging doors again.

Jaewon stood there. Alone again.
Not knowing if the next time they called his name would be to scrub in—

—or to say goodbye.

---

Somewhere Inside OR 3. Fifteen Minutes Later.

“Pressure’s dropping again!”

“He’s throwing PVCs—check the leads—no, it’s real!”

“We’re losing him!”

The room burst into movement. Suction. Compression. Shouted vitals. A hand grabbing the crash cart.

Chief Han cursed under his breath. “Get me clamps. No—there’s a rupture in the hepatic artery. I need another set of hands—NOW—”

The nurse at his side paled. “Should I call Dr. Yang?”

A beat of hesitation.

Another alarm.

And then—“Call him."

---

Operating Room 3, Sixteen Minutes Later

The world narrowed to steel and blood.

The air inside OR 3 was thick—humid with heat and tension, vibrating with the relentless wail of machines that had no time for grief. Gloves snapped. Scalpels gleamed under surgical light. Somewhere beneath the sterile drape, Kang-hyuk’s chest lay cracked open, pulsing shallowly beneath trembling hands.

"BP 60 over palp," someone called out.

“He’s not perfusing!” came another voice.

“Suction—goddammit, I said suction—”

A spatter of blood hit the hem of Chief Han’s gown. His fingers were deep inside the cavity, soaked up to the wrist. The retractor clamped uselessly against shifting ribs; visibility was poor. Too much blood. Too much loss. The hepatic artery had torn wide—a brutal, jagged rupture—and it was sinking them fast.

“I need another set of hands!” Chief Han barked. “Where the hell is Dr. Yang?!”

The answer came with the hiss of the doors swinging open.

Boots. Blood-streaked.

Gown only half-fastened.

A mask clutched in trembling fingers.

Jaewon didn’t wait for permission.

His eyes were wild—but clear. His breath came fast—but measured. His voice, when it came, was steady. Not calm—never calm—but cold. Hardened. Forged in something older than fear.

“I’m here.”

Chief Han looked up—only for a second. “You sure you can do this?”

Jaewon didn’t answer with words.

He was already at the sink. Already scrubbing like the fire hadn’t ended. Like he’d been born in this chaos. Like the blood on his hands wasn’t something he’d washed off an hour ago, but something that had never left.

In seconds, he was gowned, masked, gloved.

In seconds, he was beside Kang-hyuk’s body again.

And then—he saw it.

The split in the artery. The gush of life draining faster than they could replace it. The tremor in Chief Han’s grip.

“I’ve got it,” Jaewon said.

He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. Just reached in, hands slick and sure, the way only a trauma surgeon can be when someone they love is dying.

Clamp. Tie.

Clamp again.

A breath. Another breath.

Focus. Center.

Don’t think about how pale Kang-hyuk looked. Don’t think about how still.

The monitors screamed again.

“V-fib!”

“Charging—200!”

The paddles came, clunky and cold. Someone pressed them into Jaewon’s hands.

“Clear!”

The jolt lifted Kang-hyuk’s body off the table like a puppet. His chest slammed back down with a sickening weight.

No rhythm.

“Again—300!”

“Clear!”

Another jolt. Another silence. Jaewon stared at the monitor like he could will it back to life.

“Push epi,” he muttered. “One milligram. Now.”

The nurse complied. The syringe emptied. The moment stretched—longer, longer.

Then—

Beep.

Beep.

A rhythm. Faint. Thready. But there.

“He’s back,” someone whispered.

Jaewon’s knees nearly buckled.

He didn’t speak. Just turned his attention back to the artery, sealing the final ligature with trembling hands.

It took everything he had not to break.

Kang-hyuk’s chest rose again—shallow, tentative, but rising.

The bleeding slowed. The field cleared. The room settled, just a fraction, into quiet motion.

Chief Han exhaled like it was the first time in hours. “Close him up. Slow. We’ll keep him intubated. Move him to ICU as soon as he’s stable.”

Jaewon didn’t reply.

His hands were still deep in the body of the man he loved.

And for the first time since the ground split open, he didn’t feel helpless.

---

Trauma Wing Locker Room, One Hour Later

The echo of his footsteps was the only sound left.

The locker room was empty, lit by fluorescent lights that buzzed just loud enough to feel cruel. The same lockers. The same bench. The same gray tile that had been here every day for the past four years. But tonight, everything felt different. Discolored. Tilted sideways. Like the air itself had shifted.

Jaewon stood in the center of it, soaked in silence.

He hadn’t taken off his gown. It hung from his shoulders like a second skin—stiff, bloodstained, the ties knotted too tightly at the back. His gloves had been peeled off and discarded somewhere between the ICU and here. His mask dangled from one ear.

And Kang-hyuk was alive.

He was alive.

Jaewon had watched the ventilator rise and fall. Had counted each breath. Had stared at that fragile heartbeat on the monitor like it was a miracle carved in green light. Like it wasn’t something he almost lost. Like it wasn’t something he still could.

He staggered to the bench.

Sat.

Bent forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands cradling his forehead.

And breathed.

Slow. Shaky. Like his ribs didn’t know what to do without adrenaline keeping them apart.

The silence stretched. The lights didn’t flicker—but again, it felt like they did.

His chest heaved once. Then again.

And then—something cracked.

The breath he’d been holding since the quake. Since the rubble. Since the scream Kang-hyuk didn’t get to finish before the ceiling came down. Since he felt his pulse stutter under bloodied skin. Since he looked Chief Han in the eye and said, “I’ve got it.”

That breath shattered inside him.

He made no sound at first. Just sat there, shoulders hunched like he was still in the OR, still trying to stay small, stay useful, stay together.

But then the first sob escaped him—dry and sharp. Then another. Then all of them.

They came in waves.

Not graceful. Not cinematic. Just real. Gutting. Ugly. The way only relief could be, when it arrives hand in hand with exhaustion. The kind of sobbing that tears something loose inside you, something stitched tight for too long.

He buried his face in his palms.

And cried.

For the lives he couldn’t save.

For the ones he barely did.

For the boy on the table with a chest full of sutures and a future made of maybe.

He cried like his body didn’t belong to him anymore. Like it had been rented out for war and only now returned.

His shoulders shook.

His back curled.

And for a moment—just one—he let himself be human.

No white coat.

No trauma attending.

No composure, no professionalism, no perfect posture.

Just Jaewon. Just a man who loved someone enough to split himself open on an operating table.

The locker door across from him was cracked open slightly. He stared at the thin strip of light it cast across the floor, blurry through his tears. Dust floated in it, quiet and golden, like the sun hadn’t quite learned how to set.

Eventually—slowly—he leaned back.

His eyes were red. His cheeks were wet. But his breathing had evened out.

He pulled off his gown, finger by finger, like peeling off armor. His scrub top underneath was soaked in sweat and blood and something deeper than either.

And when he pressed the heel of his palm to his chest, right where Kang-hyuk’s heart had stopped under his hands…

…it still ached.

But it beat.

And Kang-hyuk’s did, too.

Jaewon wiped his face. Stood. And walked out of the locker room—not whole, not healed, but breathing.

---

ICU Room 7

Day Two

The machines hummed like lullabies.

The lights were dimmed, curtains were half-drawn. Monitors blinked soft green rhythms, beeping every few seconds as if to remind the world: He’s still here.

Kang-hyuk lay still, chest rising with the ventilator’s steady pulse, face pale but peaceful. His hair had been gently brushed back, his bandages changed. There was a scar curling below his collarbone now—faintly red, freshly sewn—a new chapter carved in flesh.

Jaewon sat beside him.

A book lay open in his lap, unread. A paper cup of coffee sat cold on the windowsill. He’d been here for hours, curled forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, fingers laced and unmoving. Not speaking. Just… watching.

“I should go home,” he whispered one night. No one was there to hear him. “But what if he wakes up and I’m not here?”

He didn’t go home.

Day Three

Jang-Mi had shown up with fresh clothes, shoved them into his chest, and said, “Go shower. We’ll stay with him.”

He’d argued.

She’d stared.

He obeyed.

But an hour later, he was back—scrubs fresh, hair damp, and eyes still hollow.

That night, he watched Kang-hyuk’s fingers twitch once in his sleep. Barely. A ghost of movement. But Jaewon held his breath so long he thought he might pass out. When the hand stilled again, he exhaled shakily.

He reached out.

Brushed his knuckles against Kang-hyuk’s wrist. Just to feel him.

“You’re still in there, huh?” he whispered, voice trembling.

Kang-hyuk didn’t respond.

But the monitor beeps remained steady.

So Jaewon stayed.

Day Four

The residents had started to whisper.

“Isn’t that Dr. Yang?”

“He’s here every day.”

“They said that guy in ICU 7 is Professor Kang-hyuk.”

"Rumor has it that their close..."

"Some say their just Mentor and Protege."

"I heard that they were closer than that."

"The nurses would whisper, saying that their friends..."

They didn’t know what to call it. Most people didn’t.

Friend. Colleague. Partner. Ghost of a future never spoken aloud.

Jang-Mi didn’t say anything. She just brought Jaewon warm soup and stood in the doorway while he pretended he wasn’t shaking.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” she said softly.

“I’m not scared,” he lied.

She didn’t correct him.

Day Five, 8:42 AM

Morning rounds. The world moved again. Interns walked too fast, carrying tablets and clipboards, throwing questions at Jaewon like hailstones.

“Patient in 12A—”

“CT came back—”

“Should we add more norepinephrine—?”

He answered without thinking. The motions lived in his muscles now.

“Push fluids.”

“Monitor the GCS closely.”

“Tell Cardio to consult before noon.”

His eyes were hollow. His tone flat. He hadn’t been to the ICU yet. He told himself it was discipline. That if he saw Kang-hyuk still unconscious again, he might unravel. So he focused on medicine. On cases. On keeping his voice even.

Until his pager buzzed.

[JANG-MI]
“Come to ICU. Now.”

His heart stopped.

For a moment, he just stared at the message.

Then—he ran.

He left the residents mid-sentence, coat flying behind him, footsteps echoing through the trauma wing as if the world had caught fire again.

Through the doors. Down the hall. Past the nurses’ station.

And then—He burst in. And stopped.

Kang-hyuk was awake.

He was pale. Disoriented. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks as he blinked slowly, trying to focus. The nasal cannula fed him soft oxygen. His mouth parted once. Twice. The words wouldn’t come yet. His throat was raw. His eyes were heavy.

But they were open.

And they found Jaewon.

Not the nurse. Not Jang-Mi. Not the machines. Him.

A shiver ran down Jaewon’s spine.

He stepped forward slowly, almost reverently. Like the moment might vanish if he moved too fast.

“Hyung,” he breathed. “You’re—”

Kang-hyuk blinked once.

A tear slipped down the side of his face. It wasn’t pain.

It was recognition.

Jaewon was at his side in a second, kneeling so they were eye-level. He reached for his hand—gently, like a prayer—and Kang-hyuk’s fingers curled weakly into his.

“Hi,” Jaewon whispered, voice already breaking. “You came back.”

Kang-hyuk opened his mouth, cracked and silent. He mouthed something, barely there.

It looked like: You were here.

And Jaewon smiled. Through tears. Through shaking shoulders and sleepless nights and days filled with sterile lights and grief. He smiled.

“Always,” he said, gripping his hand tighter. “I never left.”

And this time, he didn’t hold it in. He let himself cry.

Because Kang-hyuk was awake.

Because he came back.

Because this wasn’t the end. It was a beginning.

Chapter Text

ICU Room 7, Day Six, 3:27 AM

The world was hushed at this hour. The kind of quiet that made every small sound louder—nurses scribbling charts at the station, the slow hum of machines, the soft inhale of oxygen into tired lungs.

Kang-hyuk blinked awake to the low glow of lamplight.

The ceiling blurred and sharpened. His throat ached. His limbs felt like stone. But when he turned his head—slow, deliberate—he saw Jaewon.

Asleep.

Sort of.

He was curled in the recliner beside the bed, head tilted against the armrest, one hand loosely holding onto Kang-hyuk’s wrist. Like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Like he’d fought it until his body gave in.

Kang-hyuk stared.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But he watched the rise and fall of Jaewon’s chest. The crease between his brows even in sleep. The stubble that hadn’t been there five days ago. And—God—the way his fingers twitched in his sleep, still touching him, like some part of him was afraid to let go.

He turned his hand, just barely, and threaded their fingers together.

Jaewon stirred. Inhaled. Blinked slowly—and then looked up.

“Hyung,” he whispered, hoarse with sleep and disbelief. “You’re awake.”

Kang-hyuk tried to smile. His lips cracked. Jaewon leaned forward instantly, grabbing a swab, dabbing gently with practiced, trembling care.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s dry in here. I’ll get ice chips, I’ll—” He stopped when Kang-hyuk gave a weak shake of his head.

Still silent, Kang-hyuk raised their linked hands. Then tapped Jaewon’s chest with one finger. Just over his heart.

You.

Jaewon froze.

Then—very softly—he sat back, pulled Kang-hyuk’s hand to his lips, and held it there. His eyes were red again, but this time he didn’t try to hide it.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to… You promised to stay close.”

Kang-hyuk blinked—slow, deliberate.

I tried.

Jaewon let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

And then silence settled over them again. Soft. Sacred.

Day Seven, 11:46 AM

Recovery was slow.

Kang-hyuk’s voice was barely a rasp. He still tired easily. He could only take in broth and ice chips, and even that made him wince. But he was awake.

And Jaewon… never really left.

He hovered. Quietly. At the edges of the room, with charts, reading monitors, muttering to nurses. He brought music once—soft jazz on a tiny speaker—and watched Kang-hyuk drift in and out to the sound of it.

Sometimes, when he thought Kang-hyuk was asleep, Jaewon whispered things.

“You’re still warm. That’s good.”

“You’ve always looked stupid in these gowns, you know.”

“I didn’t leave your side. Not once.”

Kang-hyuk never opened his eyes during those moments.

But the line of his mouth softened. Like he was listening.

Day Eight, 2:18 AM

“Do you remember what happened?” Jaewon asked.

Kang-hyuk blinked slowly, still breathless from just sitting upright. Jaewon sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to jar the IV lines.

“The quake,” Kang-hyuk rasped.

“Yeah,” Jaewon nodded. “You were… under for a while.”

Kang-hyuk’s eyes wandered the room, as if reacquainting himself with the world. Then they landed back on Jaewon.

“Thought I lost you.”

Jaewon swallowed. “It was the other way around.”

Kang-hyuk’s brows pulled together faintly. “You looked at me… in the OR. I saw you.”

Jaewon smiled—small, bitter, awed. “You shouldn’t have been awake for that.”

“I felt your hand,” Kang-hyuk whispered. “You were shaking.”

Silence.

Then, quietly—

“I’ve never been more afraid,” Jaewon said. “Not even when I thought I was going to die. But seeing you—on that table—bleeding out, not breathing… I broke.”

Kang-hyuk watched him with a softness that gutted.

“You still saved me,” he whispered.

“I don’t know how,” Jaewon said. “I don’t think it was me.”

“You were the first thing I saw when I woke up.”

Jaewon looked down, blinking hard.

Kang-hyuk’s voice—raw and low—came again:

“I think it’s always been you.”

A beat.

The machines hummed.

And Jaewon—exhausted, blinking against tears, bone-tired from days of survival—leaned forward, pressed their foreheads together, and whispered back, “Then please don’t leave me again.”

---

Two Weeks After the Earthquake, ICU to Main Lobby

The hospital was quieter now.

Not silent—hospitals were never truly silent—but the chaos had dimmed, smoothed into something softer. Alarms still echoed in the distance, gurneys still wheeled past in steady procession, and the staff still moved with the practiced urgency of the overstretched.

But underneath all of it, there was a hush.

Like the whole building had taken one deep breath and finally let it go.

In the lobby, sunlight poured through the tall glass windows. Warm. Golden. Alive. Outside, the cherry trees that lined the sidewalk were just beginning to bloom, shaken loose by wind and memory. Pink petals scattered across the concrete in slow motion, catching on car windshields and drifting into open palms like confetti from a war survived.

And through the double doors of the ICU, two figures stepped into the light.

Jaewon walked slowly. One hand curled protectively around the strap of a hospital-issued duffel, the other gently hovering at Kang-hyuk’s back. Not touching, exactly. But close enough to catch him if he swayed.

Kang-hyuk was walking. Really walking.

Carefully, one crutch under his left arm, the other held loosely in the crook of his opposite elbow. His steps were uneven, a little too slow, a little too stiff—but his chin was lifted. His hospital wristband had been cut. His discharge form was signed. The echo of the OR, the ICU, the endless blood-soaked hours behind them—faded now to something distant.

“You sure you don’t want the wheelchair?” Jaewon asked, low.

Kang-hyuk gave him a look—tired, amused. “I’m not being wheeled out like a drama patient unless I’m unconscious.”

“You were,” Jaewon muttered. “Twice.”

“But not now,” Kang-hyuk said, and took another step.

Jaewon didn’t push.

He watched him instead. The way the sunlight touched Kang-hyuk’s hair. The way his breath hitched every fifth step. The barely-there crease of pain at his brow, which he refused to acknowledge. The way his fingers curled tight around the crutch grips like he was holding onto more than balance—like he was holding onto presence.

They passed the nurses’ station. The staff waved, called out soft encouragements, told Kang-hyuk to come back soon—as a visitor, not a patient this time.

He smiled and nodded. Thanked them all.

And Jaewon?

Jaewon swallowed around the ache in his throat. Because this wasn’t just walking. This wasn’t just leaving the hospital. This was a resurrection.

Meanwhile, somewhere at the same moment, Hospital Administration Wing—Conference Room 4B

It was supposed to be a budget meeting. Instead, it looked like a hostage situation.

Papers were everywhere—stacked, scattered, pinned, crumpled, and then reprinted again. Half-empty coffee cups lined the windowsill like a graveyard of hopes. Someone had brought a fruit tray at 9 AM. It was now untouched, wilted, and deeply symbolic.

Chief Han sat at the head of the long oak table, jacket off, tie loosened, hair slightly askew in a way that made interns exchange wary glances.

He was usually sharp. Terse. Intimidating, in the way of people who never missed a decimal. But now, he looked like a man who had been through war.

Because he had.

“Chief Han,” the finance liaison said again, holding a thick folder like it was a ticking bomb. “The elevator shaft reconstruction is projected to exceed six million won above last year’s infrastructure cap. That’s before labor. Or parts.”

Chief Han didn’t respond.

He just stared at the folder. As if it would combust on its own out of guilt.

“That's just the elevator,” she added helpfully.

Across the table, Mr. Kim from Facilities let out a pained wheeze and slid deeper into his seat. His tie was wrapped around his wrist like a tourniquet.

“Don’t forget the trauma bay ceiling,” another voice muttered—Ms. Ryu, head of Surgical Logistics, who had not slept in what appeared to be six days. Her bun had collapsed entirely, hairpins sticking out like antennae. “The scaffolding’s still holding, but it’s not rated for more than—what? Three weeks?”

“Two,” someone corrected from behind a laptop.

“Oh, excellent,” Chief Han murmured. “Just enough time to spiritually prepare for a lawsuit.”

“We also need to address the HVAC damage,” said a younger manager, scrolling grimly through a list of red-flagged systems. “The east wing is currently operating on backup fans. Three nurses passed out yesterday. We revived them with Popsicles.”

Silence. Then—A snort-laugh from the corner.

It was Mr. Park from Maintenance, who’d given up on formality sometime around Thursday. His sleeves were rolled, his badge was missing, and he had drawn a small skull on the whiteboard with a dry-erase marker labeled “HOPE.”

He raised his paper cup in a salute. “Cheers to HVAC.”

“Chief Han,” said the finance rep again, voice strained, “we need your approval to file for the emergency recovery grant before Friday.”

“I thought we already submitted that,” said Chief Han, flipping through a sheaf of pages.

“That was the first grant. This is the second.”

“The one that covers broken sterilizers and emergency blood fridge outages,” Ms. Ryu chimed in.

“Also, the one with the clause about disaster zones and emotional trauma leave.”

“I haven’t had a day off since the millennium,” Han replied flatly.

“Would you like coffee, sir?” a brave intern asked from the doorway.

Chief Han didn’t look up. “I want a time machine,” he said. “I want to go back to the night before the quake and tell Past Me to take early retirement and open a fish cake stall by the coast.”

The room paused.

“Honestly?” Mr. Kim muttered. “Sounds peaceful.”

“I bet fish cakes don’t explode mid-surgery.”

“Oh, and let’s not forget the surgical-grade LED panels,” someone added with a manic edge. “Do you know what it costs to reinstall those? They’re imported from Germany, and the quote includes a lighting consultant.”

“What does that mean?” the intern asked.

“Means we pay some guy twenty million won to tell us our trauma room’s vibes are off,” Ms. Ryu snapped.

There was a beat of quiet.

Then Chief Han leaned back in his chair, exhaled slowly, and folded his hands.

“We have no budget, no backup generator, no viable HVAC. Oh! Might I add as well, that we're missing two floors of a BASEMENT! And our surgical bay is currently being held up by borrowed scaffolding and hope.”

Another long pause.

“Okay,” he said finally. “We’ll make a list.”

Mr. Park raised his hand. “Do we put our mental states on it?”

Chief Han blinked once. “Only if they’re salvageable.”

---

Kang-hyuk's Apartment, Early Evening

It was raining again—softly this time. Not the kind of storm that splits cities or collapses ceilings. Just a gentle drizzle tapping against the windows, the kind that made you slow down, stay in, and breathe for once.

The apartment was warm. Cozy. Lit in gold from the overhead kitchen lamp, a little steam curling from the pot on the stove. A playlist murmured in the background—something soft, acoustic, maybe one of Kang-hyuk’s favorite Sunday tracks.

It could have been romantic.

But Jaewon was elbow-deep in a mild cooking disaster.

“Why is this rice fighting me?” he muttered, aggressively prodding the pot.

Kang-hyuk leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He was still in his hoodie and loose sweatpants, a blanket draped over one shoulder like he hadn’t fully committed to being vertical.

“You rinsed the rice, right?” he asked innocently.

Jaewon froze.

“…You’re supposed to rinse it?”

Kang-hyuk blinked. Then laughed. It was a soft, raspy laugh—his voice still a little hoarse from recovery, but real. It filled the space between them with something bright and familiar.

“I should’ve known better,” he said, hobbling over on bare feet, carefully mindful of the healing ache in his side. “You’re a trauma surgeon. Not a chef.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t impressed by the one time I made ramen.”

“You boiled water, Jaewon.”

“With flair.”

Kang-hyuk chuckled again and gently nudged him aside with his hip. “Move. I’m saving us from food poisoning.”

“No, no,” Jaewon protested, not moving. “You just got discharged. You’re not lifting anything heavier than a spoon.”

“Then I’ll supervise. Chef’s privilege.”

He grabbed the rice cooker lid before Jaewon could stop him.

“Hyung—”

“Too late, I’m invested now.”

What followed was a slow, playful choreography of two men who hadn’t had time to be this soft in weeks. Jaewon burned the bottom of the pan. Kang-hyuk showed him how to fix it without judgment. Jaewon tried to chop green onions and made a mess of the cutting board. Kang-hyuk leaned over—closer than necessary—and guided his fingers into place, murmuring, “Careful, chef,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They laughed.

They bumped shoulders.

They stirred soup and shared taste-tests straight from the spoon, leaning close like gravity was something emotional.

When dinner was finally plated—somehow edible, a little uneven, but theirs—they carried it to the table by the window, settling into the quiet like it was something sacred.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, they ate slowly, legs brushing under the table.

“How was your check-up? I'm sorry I couldn't accompany you, I was in the middle of surgery.” Jaewon asked, spoon resting in his fingers.

Kang-hyuk shrugged. “No worries, Dr. Seo said I’m healing fast. Lungs are holding up. I might get cleared for light rehab in two weeks.”

“That’s fast.”

“Motivation helps.” He smiled into his bowl. “Also, I hate hospital food.”

Jaewon chuckled. “Yeah, okay, fair.”

They fell quiet for a moment. Not awkward—just peaceful. The kind of quiet that had nothing left to prove. The kind you earned.

Kang-hyuk reached across the table. His fingers found Jaewon’s without asking.

“Do you remember,” he said slowly, “the first night you stayed over?”

Jaewon smiled faintly. “You mean the one where I forgot my charger and stole your hoodie?”

“You still have it.”

“I earned it,” Jaewon said. “I suffered your IKEA couch.”

“That couch is a national treasure.”

“It’s a war crime.”

Kang-hyuk snorted—and then winced, placing a gentle hand against his ribs.

Jaewon’s expression softened instantly. “Hey, too much laughing. You need to take it easy.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re still healing.”

Kang-hyuk looked at him. Really looked. “I know,” he said.

---

Later, after the dishes had been mostly cleared (with Jaewon insisting Kang-hyuk sit and Kang-hyuk ignoring him halfway), the apartment glowed in the soft quiet of night. Rain pressed gentle kisses against the window. The lights were dimmed. The kettle clicked off somewhere in the background, forgotten.

Jaewon stood at the sink, hands wet, sleeves half-rolled up, as he rinsed the last bowl.

And behind him, Kang-hyuk watched.

He sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath him, hoodie sleeves covering his hands. A blanket pooled around his legs. He looked… at peace. Like something had settled in him.

And then—

“Jaewon.”

The name floated into the air like something sacred.

Jaewon glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

A pause. Then, “How about moving in with me?”

Silence. The kind that cracked something open. Jaewon blinked. Slowly. “What?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t look away. His voice was low but clear. “I mean it. Move in. No more hopping between shifts and apartments, and bad couches. Just… here. With me.”

“You—Hyung! You just got out of the hospital.”

“I know,” he said. “And I don’t want to waste any more time.”

The air between them shifted. Deepened.

Jaewon dried his hands. Turned fully around. His eyes were soft. A little stunned. “Are you sure?”

Kang-hyuk gave a crooked smile. “You practically live here already. Might as well make it official.”

Jaewon crossed the room slowly. And when he stopped in front of Kang-hyuk, he didn’t answer with words. He just leaned down, cupped Kang-hyuk’s face in both hands, and kissed him—gently, sweetly, like the answer had always been yes.

When they pulled apart, Kang-hyuk’s forehead rested against his.

“So?” Kang-hyuk whispered.

Jaewon smiled against his skin. “I’ll go grab my charger.”

Kang-hyuk's smile was brighter than ever. He immediately pulled Jaewon to hug him, tightly, as if he never wanted Jaewon to leave his side ever again. Jaewon chuckled with pure affection, his arms perfectly resting around his neck as Kang-hyuk starts to spin.

"Ahahahaha~ Hyung~" Jaewon slowly patted his back to stop him. Kang-hyuk took the hint and slowly puts him down, still arms wrapped around his waist. 

"Thank you, Jaewon..." his words were sincere. 

One of Jaewon's hand caressed his cheek; it was soft, warm, affectionate. A feeling that Kang-hyuk had always yearned for in his life. "I should be the one thanking you," he said softly.

Kang-hyuk leaned into Jaewon’s hand like it was the only anchor in the world. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, lashes trembling, his breath brushing against Jaewon’s skin like a secret he didn’t know how to say aloud.

Jaewon smiled—softly, quietly—as if he could feel it all. Every ache. Every unspoken thing.

“Thank you for always keeping your promise…” he whispered.

For a long, quiet second, neither of them moved.

The rain kept falling in its hushed lullaby, the city beyond their windows humming in slow, distant rhythm. The kitchen light pooled gold around their feet. The warmth between them pulsed steady and low, like a second heartbeat. Like something ancient. Like coming home.

And then—Kang-hyuk pressed his forehead to Jaewon’s.

A sigh. A breath. A stillness.

Their eyes closed.

Not to escape, but to stay. To feel.

The world fell away. There was only this: skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, two souls that had survived the unthinkable now finding stillness in each other’s quiet.

No more blood. No more rupture. No more goodbyes.

Just this breathless closeness. This perfect hush. This soft, stolen corner of peace carved out between the ruins.

Jaewon’s hand cupped the back of Kang-hyuk’s neck.

Kang-hyuk exhaled against his cheek.

And there, in the center of the storm’s aftermath, they simply stood. Holding each other. Eyes closed. Heart open.

Together. Alive. Loved.

Chapter Text

The sky was still unbrushed when they left the apartment—faint streaks of lavender and grey lingering like watercolor smudges that hadn’t quite dried. The city outside remained wrapped in sleep, its buildings hushed silhouettes, its windows still dark. A quiet stillness hung in the air, the kind that only existed just before dawn, before the noise of traffic and life woke the world.

Inside the apartment, the warmth of sleep still clung to the air—blankets unmade, the kettle just recently turned off, the scent of toasted bread lingering faintly in the kitchen. Jaewon moved quickly, half-dressed, hair damp from his own rushed shower, the collar of his coat popped up on one side as he tried to juggle his coffee and shoulder bag at once.

“Hyung, your bag—wait,” Jaewon paused mid-step, frowning. “Your ID badge!”

He set the coffee down with a sharp clink and turned, scanning the small countertop where their things always piled up—their wallets, their keys, the badge with Kang-hyuk’s name and photo slightly scratched from overuse. It sat there like an afterthought, carelessly forgotten.

“Honestly,” Jaewon muttered under his breath as he snatched it up, holding it aloft like a detective presenting evidence at a crime scene. “How do you always forget the one thing you literally wear on your chest all day?”

From down the hall came the soft thud of Kang-hyuk’s socks on wood flooring, followed by the man himself—hair still damp and curling a little at the edges, hoodie only halfway zipped, one sleeve shoved up his forearm while the other drooped low and wrinkled. He looked like he’d been caught mid-speed run, a slight breathlessness in his expression as he approached with a sheepish smile.

“I knew I forgot something,” Kang-hyuk said, not even bothering to defend himself.

“You always forget something,” Jaewon replied, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably. There was affection hiding in the cadence of his voice, in the way his fingers gently reached out to smooth the fabric of Kang-hyuk’s hoodie, straightening the way it sat on his shoulders. Then he carefully tucked the ID badge into the front pocket, patting it like a mother might pat a child’s lunch bag.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Kang-hyuk grinned at that, unapologetically. “That's why you moved in?”

Jaewon didn’t even flinch. He looked up at Kang-hyuk with a perfectly blank face, lips pressing together as he calmly shouldered his bag again.

“No,” he deadpanned, stepping toward the door. “That’s why I haven’t moved out yet.”

Kang-hyuk let out a bark of laughter, chasing after him as Jaewon yanked the front door open. The hallway was still dim, apartment doors shut in slumber, and the elevator at the far end gleamed gold under the flickering overhead light.

Jaewon pressed the elevator button and exhaled softly, gaze wandering to the dusty hues of morning visible through the stairwell window. He didn’t say anything, but Kang-hyuk stepped beside him, shoulders brushing, quiet in that way he always was when words weren’t needed.

They stood like that in silence—two people not quite fully awake, wrapped in the comfort of routine and each other. The kind of silence that was less absence and more presence, full and familiar.

Then, with a cheerful little ding, the elevator arrived, the doors opening with their usual mechanical sigh.

Kang-hyuk stepped in first, turning back to hold the door open for Jaewon.

The corners of Jaewon’s mouth tugged upward slightly as he followed. “The elevator’s the only one polite enough to wait for me these days.”

“It’s got better manners than me,” Kang-hyuk shrugged, punching the ground floor button. “But I make better coffee.”

“Debatable.”

“You drank the whole cup this morning.”

“Because I was cold. Not because it was good.”

Kang-hyuk laughed again, that low, half-sleepy chuckle that always seemed to melt through Jaewon’s carefully cultivated sarcasm.

The elevator began to descend, soft music playing from a tiny speaker overhead, and they stood side by side—shoulders still touching, warmth traveling easily between their bodies, hearts not quite racing, but not quite calm either.

---

The hospital was already humming by the time they arrived—its heart beating steady beneath fluorescent lights and polished floors. The sliding doors parted with a sigh, ushering them into the familiar scent of antiseptic, caffeine, and the faint perfume of morning rush. Nurses moved like dancers in practiced choreography, white coats flowing, clipboards flipping, voices clipped but calm. The intercom crackled to life overhead, announcing a consult, code blue, an ICU transfer. The day had started without them.

They stepped into the elevator together. By the third floor, they parted like a breath released—Jaewon veering left toward the resident wing, Kang-hyuk peeling right toward the trauma bay.

No goodbyes. Just a small, practiced wave between them. A half-smile. A look. They were good at those now. Quiet things that said, see you soon, without needing to be said at all.

Jaewon barely made it three steps down the hall before he was intercepted—cornered like prey—by a pack of wide-eyed new residents, their white coats still too crisp, clipboards clutched like life vests.

“Dr. Yang! Good morning!”

“Sir, we reviewed the post-op notes from last night’s trauma admission—”

“We had a few questions about the vitals—”

“Do we get to scrub in today?”

“Can we observe trauma rounds?”

“Are we assigned to you today? I think we’re assigned to you—”

“Alright,” Jaewon said, both hands raised like he was calming a riot. “Alright. One at a time, children. Deep breaths.”

They hushed instantly. He looked them over. Seven in total. All eyes. No sense of volume control. He rubbed at the corner of his brow and sighed, but not without amusement.

“Follow me,” he said, already walking. “I’ll show you how not to trip on your own egos before lunchtime.”

They followed in a clumsy, murmuring line, like ducklings in lab coats. Jaewon walked ahead with a calm sort of efficiency, weaving past surgical bays and busy corners with ease, his gait steady and expression unreadable. But every few steps, he’d glance over his shoulder, making sure none of them wandered into a closed wing or walked face-first into a gurney.

“Dr. Yang,” one of them piped up timidly, “is it true you used to be on the colorectal track?”

Jaewon glanced over with a raised brow. “Is it true you forgot to clip your pen properly and now have ink leaking into your coat pocket?”

The resident looked down—and promptly yelped.

“Oh my God—!”

The others stifled laughter. Jaewon didn’t smile, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Lesson one,” he said, rounding the corner. “Always check your pens. Blood isn’t the only thing that stains.”

They turned the final hallway toward the trauma wing, where the mood shifted into something a little sharper, a little tenser. Here, even the air seemed to move faster. Nurses passed with vital charts. Monitors beeped. An intern was being gently scolded near the nurses’ station.

And up ahead, standing like a pillar in the center of it all, was Kang-hyuk.

He was mid-sentence, speaking to a group of incoming trauma fellows, one hand in the pocket of his coat, the other gesturing lightly as he explained something about mediastinal shifts in high-impact chest trauma. His voice was calm, low, unhurried—the kind that made you lean in to listen. He moved as though he belonged here. As if the whole trauma wing breathed around him.

Jaewon slowed, instinctively. So did the residents.

“That,” he said, tilting his head in Kang-hyuk’s direction, “is Professor Baek Kang-hyuk. Head of Trauma Surgery. You’ll be reporting to him for the next six weeks.”

The residents straightened up like they’d been shocked.

“He looks so cool…” one whispered under his breath.

“Scary cool,” added another, already nervously fixing her collar.

Jaewon gave them a long-suffering side glance. “He’s not scary. He just doesn’t blink when he reads charts.”

“Is it true he once did three trauma ops in a row without sitting down?” a bolder resident asked.

“Five,” Jaewon said. “And he only stopped because I dragged him off the floor myself.”

Kang-hyuk must’ve felt the eyes—his gaze flicked over. The moment he saw Jaewon, something in his posture softened, just enough to be noticeable. He raised his hand slightly in a lazy wave.

“Professor,” Jaewon called out, voice easy.

“You’re late,” Kang-hyuk said without missing a beat.

Jaewon huffed. “We’re not. You’re just chronically early and refuse to sleep like a normal human.”

“To be fair,” Kang-hyuk said, eyes sliding to the group behind him, “you’re wrangling more interns than usual.”

“They multiplied,” Jaewon replied flatly.

The residents all bowed in unison. “Good morning, Professor Baek!”

Kang-hyuk gave them a once-over. Sharp, observant. Then he looked back at Jaewon with the faintest smirk.

“You’re leading rounds?”

“Unless you want to,” Jaewon offered, folding his arms.

Kang-hyuk shook his head with that infuriating calm. “No, no. I prefer watching you suffer.”

The residents stared between them like they were watching a tennis match, not entirely sure if this was a joke or an actual interdepartmental duel.

One brave soul cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Excuse me, Professor… sir… um, what’s the most common mistake junior trauma observers make in early field surgeries?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t blink. “Assuming they know the answer before the patient tells them.”

There was a collective silence. Jaewon, who had heard that line before, glanced skyward.

Another resident spoke up, bolder now. “What’s your biggest advice for surviving trauma rotation?”

Kang-hyuk smiled faintly. “Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. And if you can’t manage either—don’t faint in my OR.”

Jaewon snorted. “He’s serious. We’ve lost two this year.”

“Only one,” Kang-hyuk corrected.

“I’m counting the one that vomited.”

“Fair.”

The residents laughed nervously, unsure if this was still joking or not.

Jaewon clapped his hands together. “Alright, circus is over. Back in line. Trauma rounds in fifteen. Anyone who’s late does bedpan duty for three days.”

Kang-hyuk’s brow lifted. “I thought you said one day last year.”

“I’m scarier this year,” Jaewon said smoothly, already walking away. “And more caffeinated.”

As they moved off, Kang-hyuk lingered for a moment, watching Jaewon’s back disappear down the corridor—residents scurrying after him like baby birds, one tripping slightly, another frantically scribbling notes.

He smiled to himself.

Same old Jaewon. Soft where it counted. Sharp everywhere else.

---

By lunch, the hospital had settled into its usual rhythm: barely managed sanity disguised as order. Controlled chaos. The kind that only teaching hospitals could pull off—where someone was always running, someone was always crying, and someone was always trying to figure out the coffee machine’s latest mood swing.

The trauma team migrated into the cafeteria like a weary pack of wolves who had long since accepted that rice and pickled radish would probably be their last meal before death.

Kang-hyuk and Jaewon slid into a bench at their usual table, trays clattering. Their food looked mildly edible at best, but neither of them cared. It was warm and didn’t require a scalpel.

Gyeong-Won arrived with Dong-Ju on his heels, mid-argument already.

“I’m telling you,” Dong-Ju said, jabbing a pair of chopsticks for emphasis, “that vending machine hates me. I put in 1,000 Won, I get nothing. It’s cursed.”

“Or you just have bad hands,” Gyeong-Won muttered, dumping his rice without looking.

“It’s not my hands, it’s vengeful spirits.”

“Maybe the vending machine was your enemy in a past life,” Jaewon offered dryly, sipping his soup.

Dong-Ju pointed dramatically. “Exactly!”

Across the cafeteria, near the food counter, a commotion had started. Predictably.

“Ma’am,” Jang-Mi said, gesturing at her tray like she was arguing in court, “this is not enough katsu. Do you know what I personally sacrificed during the earthquake? I had to perform a thoracotomy with rusty scissors!”

The cafeteria lady was unfazed. “You’re lucky you got scissors. We ran out of plastic gloves.”

“I deserve more!”

“Everyone deserves more,” the auntie replied. “This is the portion.”

“I almost died—”

“You’re a trauma surgeon. Go stitch your entitlement shut.”

Back at the table, Kang-hyuk nearly choked on his kimchi. “She’s at it again,” he said, voice low.

“I give her five minutes,” Jaewon replied.

“Three,” Kang-hyuk countered.

“Two,” said Dong-Ju confidently. “She’s got that look in her eye.”

Sure enough, forty-five seconds later, Jang-Mi stomped across the cafeteria like a betrayed soldier returning from battle, tray in hand, dramatic muttering leaving a trail behind her.

“Unbelievable,” she said, collapsing into the seat next to Kang-hyuk. “I save lives. I save your lives. And this is how I’m rewarded?”

“You didn’t even operate today,” Gyeong-Won pointed out.

“Details.”

Kang-hyuk quietly, wordlessly, took one of his katsu pieces—arguably the biggest one—and slid it onto her tray.

There was a pause.

Even the next table noticed.

Jang-Mi blinked. “What… did you just… give me food? Voluntarily?”

Kang-hyuk didn't even look up. “Don’t make it weird Gangster.”

“Oh, I will,” she beamed, leaning dramatically into his space. “I’m going to write about this in my memoirs.”

“Please don’t,” he muttered, but there was no heat in his voice.

Jaewon snorted into his soup again, shaking his head fondly. He nudged Kang-hyuk under the table with his knee—a tiny, silent gesture of gratitude.

But Kang-hyuk turned, nudging him back softly with his own. “Eat more. You skipped breakfast.”

Jaewon froze slightly. Then cleared his throat and hissed under his breath, “Professor, we’re at work. You can’t go full boyfriend in the cafeteria.”

Kang-hyuk blinked. “Why not?”

“Because interns are watching. Residents are watching. Probably the janitors as well.”

And indeed, across the room, the new residents were gathered at their own table—eating only in theory, mostly whispering in wonder like schoolkids dissecting their teachers divorce drama.

“Is it just me,” one of them whispered, “or does Professor Baek seem… kind of sweet?”

“Sweet? He glared at me yesterday.”

“Yeah, but did you see him give up his katsu?”

“That’s basically love language in this hospital.”

Another leaned in, eyes wide. “Guys. I heard they live together now.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yup. My senior told me. Dr. Yang moved in after the earthquake.”

“Wait. That’s real?!”

"Wait?! So their both in a relationship?!"

“I thought that was a fan theory!”

As if summoned by gossip itself, an attending from Neurology passed by their table carrying a salad and a frown. She slowed, leaned down, and deadpanned, “Yeah, it’s real. I saw Dr. Yang bringing a bento box with two sets of chopsticks last week.”

She walked off like a cryptid, leaving them frozen.

The residents gasped like they'd witnessed an idol scandal in real-time.

Back at the trauma table, chaos continued in gentle waves.

“I’m just saying,” Jang-Mi said, brandishing her chopsticks, “if you two are living together now, you need a proper rice cooker. None of that instant microwave nonsense.”

Jaewon blinked. “How do you know what kind of rice cooker we have?”

“I don’t. But judging by Professor Baek's tragic breakfast habits, I can guess.”

“Wow,” Kang-hyuk muttered. “I feed you one katsu, and now I’m getting appliance shamed.”

“I’m just looking out for your gut flora,” Jang-Mi said sweetly. “That’s what daughters do.”

Kang-hyuk blinked. “You’re not my daughter.”

“Not with that attitude.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Jaewon said, suppressing a smile.

“I’m naming my next gallbladder after you,” Jang-Mi declared proudly. “Professor Baek Kang-hyuk Junior. The third.”

Dong-Ju nearly spat out his drink. “Wait, what happened to the second?”

“Oh, that was my old stapler. May she rest in peace.”

They all erupted into laughter, the kind that lingered under the hum of fluorescent lights and over warm trays of food. Around them, other departments stared, smiled, whispered—but no one dared interrupt.

Except maybe Jaewon, when Kang-hyuk reached over again to adjust the cuff of his coat sleeve, fingers brushing too tenderly for workplace protocol.

Jaewon side-eyed him, voice low. “Professor. Stop. We’re at work.”

Kang-hyuk just blinked. “You’re the one who moved in.”

“And you’re the one acting like we’re already married.”

“Is that a problem?”

Jaewon paused. Flushed just slightly. Then muttered into his rice, “...No.”

From across the cafeteria, a resident gasped.

Another whispered, “Wait, are they're married already?”

“No way. I didn’t get an invite.”

“I’ll crash the wedding.”

“I’ll officiate the wedding.”

Kang-hyuk leaned a little closer to Jaewon. “They’re talking about us again.”

“I know,” Jaewon said, sipping his soup.

“You mad?”

“I’m only mad that we didn’t get more katsu.”

Kang-hyuk grinned, slow and warm. “Next time, I’ll get you two portions.”

And beneath the overhead buzz, between gossip and gyoza, the trauma table laughed a little louder, leaned a little closer, and reminded the hospital once again; That healing wasn’t always found in operating rooms. Sometimes, it was here. In cafeteria tables and chaotic friendships. In gossip. In glances. In love.

---

Evening had curled itself against the windows like a sleepy cat, shadows stretching in golden hues along the polished floors. The hospital was quieter now—not silent, never silent, but softened, as if it too had drawn in a breath and held it for a while.

At the nurse’s station, the light was a soft fluorescence, steady and buzzing. Jaewon stood at the counter, fingers scrolling through chart updates on the digital pad, his brows drawn in subtle concentration. He murmured something under his breath—medication dosage, most likely. Across from him sat Nurse Agnes, sipping her green tea with practiced elegance, while Jang-Mi leaned against the edge of the counter, half-distracted, half-watching Jaewon with a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth.

“He’s doing the chart face,” Jang-Mi whispered to Agnes, who chuckled into her cup.

Jaewon, ever the focused one, didn’t look up. “I can hear you.”

“We know.”

And then, like deer in headlights—or more accurately, deer stampeding toward headlights—a clumsy, chaotic group of residents stumbled their way into the hallway, half-whispering, half-pushing each other, clearly on the verge of something.

Jaewon didn’t even glance up. He knew this kind of energy too well. Instead, he clicked open another file. “Well? If it’s an emergency, speak up. If it’s not, then come back after tomorrows rounds. My shift ends in five.”

The residents shifted in place, glancing at each other like they were drawing straws with their eyes.

Finally, the shortest one of the group—nervous, brave, or possibly both—cleared her throat and blurted out, “Dr. Yang… So… you and Professor Baek aren’t a fan theory of this hospital?”

Jaewon blinked. Actually blinked. Then slowly, very slowly, he looked up. “Excuse me?”

Behind him, Jang-Mi choked on absolutely nothing and turned around, one hand already fishing for her phone. “Oh no,” she whispered to Nurse Agnes, eyes gleaming. “It’s happening.”

Agnes raised her eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

“Texting Dong-Ju and Gyeong-Won,” she whispered with deadly excitement. “Telling them to come to the nurse’s station. And bring popcorn.”

Jaewon stared at the residents who now looked like schoolchildren caught mid-prank. “What did you just say?”

The brave resident took a step forward, cheeks already flushed. “I-I mean… everyone’s been wondering! You and Professor Baek… you two are kind of like… canon now?”

“Oh my god,” Jaewon muttered.

Another resident piped up, more confident now. “We just wanted to confirm! You know, professionally.”

“Professionally?” Jaewon’s voice rose an octave.

“Yeah! Like… is it true? That you guys… are, you know… dating?”

From the back, another added, “He gave up his other katsu for you.”

“Iconic, honestly.”

“And he literally looked like he was gonna bite someone’s head off until you walked into the ER and touched his shoulder.”

“That’s not normal. That’s love.”

Jaewon pinched the bridge of his nose. “First of all, who started this?”

“I heard it from radiology,” one said.

“I heard it from anesthesia.”

“Lab techs have a betting pool.”

“What?!”

“Cardiology made stickers.”

Jang-Mi snorted, barely hiding her grin. “Ooh, this is better than the last time someone got caught sleeping in the call room with their cat.”

Jaewon gave her a glare. “You’re not helping.”

She leaned against the counter with a cheeky grin. “Well, since we’re asking questions, here’s a good one, Who fell first, hmm~?”

Even Agnes cracked a smile at that. “Oh yes. That’s a classic.”

Another resident jumped in, voice gleaming with the thrill of chaos, “Who confessed first?”

“Do you live together?”

“Is it true you scolded the intern but Kang-hyuk defended her because she cried and then you scolded him?”

“Did you guys kiss in the on-call room during the blackout?”

“Do you have couple mugs?”

Jaewon, flustered beyond measure but still trying to maintain a semblance of control, held up a hand. “Okay. Enough. First off, how did this even spread?”

He turned to Jang-Mi and Agnes with suspicion.

“Oh, no no no,” Jang-Mi said, palms up, innocent. “It wasn’t us.”

Agnes nodded solemnly. “You gotta admit though, the whole hospital was bound to figure it out. You two work like a married couple.”

“And fight like one,” Jang-Mi added.

“And finish each other’s sentences,” Agnes said.

“And meals.”

“And lives,” Jang-mi grinned.

Dong-Ju arrived at that very moment, holding an actual bag of popcorn, trailed by Gyeong-Won who was already munching. “So… tea?” Dong-Ju asked, mouth full.

“It’s a public secret at this point,” Gyeong-Won said.

Jaewon looked ready to combust.

And then—salvation or damnation, depending on perspective—the hallway door opened.

Kang-hyuk. He paused mid-step at the scene before him. A small crowd. Jaewon at the center. Residents and nurses and popcorn.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, voice cool and composed in the way that made everyone instinctively stand up straighter.

The residents parted like the Red Sea.

Kang-hyuk stepped through and approached, looking first at the group with his usual professional detachment. Then his eyes settled on Jaewon—and something in his expression softened, melted like sugar on the tongue.

“Jaewon,” he said gently, “I’ll get the car ready, okay?”

Jaewon, already blinking in disbelief, nodded slowly, still surrounded by gossiping chaos.

Kang-hyuk leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead—light, casual, unbothered.

“I almost forgot,” he added, brushing his fingers briefly against Jaewon’s hand. “I made reservations for tonight. We’re eating out.”

Then, without waiting for the fallout, he walked off.

Silence.

Complete silence.

Then—

“Kyaaaaaaaaa—!”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Did you SEE THAT—”

“THE FOREHEAD KISS???”

“WE’RE NEVER GOING TO RECOVER.”

“HE MADE A RESERVATION—”

“ROMANCE IS ALIVE—”

“I need to sit down—”

Meanwhile, Jaewon was as still as a statue. No—he was vibrating from the inside out, face flaming red, ears pink to the tips, one hand gripping the edge of the counter for dear life.

Jang-Mi was fanning herself with her clipboard. “That was… cinematic.”

Agnes nodded. “I’ll need a moment.”

Dong-Ju handed Jaewon the popcorn. “Here. For the heat.”

Gyeong-Won simply sighed. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you win an argument and an audience.”

Jaewon, still pink and overwhelmed, muttered under his breath, “I swear to god, I’m calling HR.”

“Please,” Jang-Mi said. “HR ships you two harder than anyone.”

Somewhere in the hallway, a lab tech passed by and called out, “I give them six months before they get married!”

“Four,” another said from behind a crash cart.

And all Jaewon could do was hide his face in his hands while his coworkers cheered for a romance that had long stopped being a secret and started being something far more beautiful; a truth too loud to hide, and too soft to be anything but real.

Chapter Text

The car ride began in a hush of twilight and city murmurs. The kind of quiet that wasn't really quiet at all—it was filled with the faint hum of tires on asphalt, with the whisper of wind skipping over the windshield, and with the soft weight of a presence beside you that meant home.

Kang-hyuk drove one-handed, his other palm resting open between them on the console. An invitation. Jaewon hesitated, only because it felt like a ritual now—this little game of pretending not to want what he always did.

But then he gave in. He always did. His fingers found Kang-hyuk’s, lacing into place like they’d done it a thousand times in other lives. His thumb brushed slow circles over Kang-hyuk’s knuckles, gentle, like prayer.

“Still recovering from your fan club’s ambush, I see,” Kang-hyuk murmured, not looking at him, but the smile curling at his lips was unmistakable.

Jaewon groaned, dramatically. “I will never live that down.”

“Couple mugs, Jaewon?”

“We do not have couple mugs. We have one mug.”

“That you both use.”

“It’s ergonomic. And large.”

Kang-hyuk squeezed his hand lightly, smirking. “So am I.”

“Oh my god.”

Laughter bloomed between them, easy and full. Jaewon tried to sink into his seat, tried to be annoyed, but Kang-hyuk’s laughter had a way of dismantling all his defenses. And he loved it—hated how much he loved it.

Kang-hyuk was still smirking when he pulled up in front of the restaurant. It was nestled quietly between buildings, warm wood spilling golden light out onto the sidewalk. The kind of place you didn’t find unless you were looking for it. The kind of place that knew how to keep secrets.

He came around and opened Jaewon’s door before he could move.

Jaewon arched a brow. “What is this, a date?”

Kang-hyuk leaned in, voice low, teasing. “What do you think this is?”

And Jaewon, who had faced trauma rooms, aftershocks, and a hundred things worse, suddenly found himself blinking, flustered, cheeks warming like candle wax.

Inside, the restaurant was a cocoon of woodgrain and music. A quiet jazz trio played in the corner, notes floating like drifting snow. Their table was near the window, a flickering candle set between them, its light casting soft shadows over wine glasses and menus they barely glanced at.

“You’re not going to let me choose anything, are you?”

Kang-hyuk was already scanning the menu, lips pursed in thoughtful mischief. “You chose last time.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not. I let you choose the appetizer.”

“Because I threatened you.”

“And I respected your bravery.”

They ended up ordering nearly everything Kang-hyuk suggested, of course. Not that Jaewon minded. He liked the way Kang-hyuk pointed at dishes with confidence, liked the warmth in his voice when he said trust me, like every shared meal was a soft promise.

Between courses, their conversation wandered—past hospital stories and childhood anecdotes, ridiculous gossip and quiet revelations. Kang-hyuk described how one of the orthopedic nurses caught him smiling at his phone and demanded to know if he was texting Jaewon. Jaewon recounted a minor meltdown from a new intern who’d mixed up surgical scrubs and nearly scrubbed in on an OB case in trauma boots.

“I had to talk him down with a juice box and a gentle pat on the back,” Jaewon said, deadpan.

Kang-hyuk snorted into his wine.

And then there were moments between the laughter—long glances, quiet hand brushes, the way Jaewon would lean on one elbow and just look at Kang-hyuk, as if memorizing him under dim light. Kang-hyuk, who reached across the table to fix the fold in Jaewon’s cuff, as though his fingers had the right to touch him anytime, in any small way.

And somewhere after the second glass of wine, after a ridiculous debate about who had the better handwriting (Kang-hyuk claimed his was “confidently legible”; Jaewon said it looked like a goose stepped on it), the air shifted.

Kang-hyuk rested his hand against Jaewon’s wrist. “Hey.”

Jaewon blinked up.

Kang-hyuk’s gaze held him there—firm, gentle, steady as gravity. “Do you think we should tell the board?”

The question landed soft, but clear.

Jaewon’s fingers stilled. “You mean… formally?”

“Yeah. File the disclosure. Make it official. We’re in the same department, but I'm your mentor, and you're my protége. We have no conflicts, but I’d rather be transparent than let anyone start rumors.”

There was no tension in his voice—just honesty. Just the kind of care that came from wanting to protect something.

Jaewon exhaled, slow. “You think it’s time?”

“I think I don’t want to keep acting like I have to hide that I love you.”

And that—that—was what did him in.

Jaewon’s throat tightened. His hand turned, slowly, palm up against Kang-hyuk’s. “Alright,” he said, voice low. “We’ll tell them.”

Kang-hyuk’s smile bloomed like dawn through the dark. “Thank you.”

Their dessert arrived then, delicate and ridiculous—a single slice of tangerine tart with gold leaf and a whisper of black sesame cream.

Kang-hyuk was about to cut into it when Jaewon leaned forward, fork in hand. “No. I’m feeding you.”

“Oh?” Kang-hyuk blinked, amused. “What’s the occasion?”

“I’m being romantic.”

Kang-hyuk leaned forward, chin propped on one hand, utterly at ease. “Are you, now?”

Jaewon fed him a bite. Kang-hyuk chewed, nodded slowly. “Impeccable. As expected of my boyfriend.”

Jaewon choked. “You—don’t just say that in public—”

Kang-hyuk wiped a napkin to his lips. “Why not? It’s true.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m very fortunate. You’re sitting right here.”

Jaewon flushed so deeply he nearly slid under the table.

Later, when they stepped out into the night again, it was raining lightly—just enough to sparkle against the streetlights. Kang-hyuk pulled out an umbrella and held it above both of them, though it tilted a little more toward Jaewon’s side.

Jaewon didn’t mention it. He just reached over, quietly, and tugged Kang-hyuk’s coat a little closer around his shoulders.

As they walked to the car, Kang-hyuk’s hand found his again, warm and sure.

“I like this,” Jaewon said, barely audible over the rain. “All of this.”

Kang-hyuk turned to look at him.

“Let’s keep doing it,” Jaewon whispered. “The dinners. The little fights. The embarrassing nicknames. Let’s keep… showing up for each other.”

Kang-hyuk’s eyes softened like a sigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And neither was Jaewon. Not anymore.

The laughter returned then, soft and fizzy, the kind that made people at other tables glance over and smile without knowing why. They finished the tart, finished their tea, and then lingered—neither wanting to break the spell of candlelight and closeness.

Outside, the night had folded itself into a silk scarf of stars.

They stood beside the car, Jaewon leaning against the passenger door, Kang-hyuk watching him the way you watch something you never thought you’d get to hold.

No words this time. Just the quiet knowledge of shared routines, of keys on the same hook and toothbrushes side by side. Of jackets left on the same hallway chair. Of warmth waiting beneath the same quilt.

Kang-hyuk stepped in close, their shadows merging.

Jaewon tilted his head, resting his forehead against Kang-hyuk’s, voice low. “We should get home.”

“Yeah,” Kang-hyuk said, brushing a thumb along Jaewon’s jaw. “But not yet.”

A pause. Soft breath between them.

“Kiss me,” Jaewon murmured.

So Kang-hyuk did. Softly. Sweetly. Like the candlelight. Like the tart. Like the word “yes” spoken over a thousand times in different ways.

And beneath the city sky, the world spun quietly on—bearing witness to two men who had once been storms, now learning the language of calm.

---

The ride home felt suspended in honey. The city had quieted into soft hums and amber streetlamps, their glow puddling on the asphalt like dreams left behind. Rain clung to the car windows in delicate constellations, blurring the world beyond into watercolor smears of neon and silence. Inside, the warmth between them stretched like a lullaby—wordless, weightless.

Jaewon was half-asleep, head tilted gently against the window, one hand lazily nestled in Kang-hyuk’s over the center console. He hadn’t spoken much since they left the restaurant—just hummed at Kang-hyuk’s teasing, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips, like he was still full from everything: the meal, the laughter, the quiet that now stretched comfortably between them.

Kang-hyuk glanced at him during a red light. “You always get like this after dessert. Like a cat in a sunbeam.”

Jaewon cracked an eye open. “You said you liked that about me.”

“I do. Just didn’t realize it came with purring.”

Jaewon groaned and curled further into his scarf. “You’re so annoying.”

Kang-hyuk grinned. “And yet you keep getting in my car.”

The drive ended in the underground parking garage of their building, where silence bloomed thick, echoing off the concrete like the hush before a snowfall. They didn’t rush to get out. Kang-hyuk turned off the engine but didn’t let go of Jaewon’s hand.

Outside, rain still whispered. Not a storm—just enough to shimmer the air.

“Come on, sleepy,” Kang-hyuk murmured, thumb brushing over Jaewon’s knuckles.

“I’m too full to move.”

“Guess I’ll carry you, then.”

Jaewon squinted at him. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“It is. For your dignity.”

He let go only to circle the car and open Jaewon’s door with exaggerated flair. “Your chariot awaits, Your Grumpiness.”

Jaewon sighed like he was deeply burdened by love. “If I trip, you’re getting sued.”

“I’m the attending. You’ll trip into better healthcare.”

Their laughter followed them all the way up to the apartment—quiet, gleaming, a kind of joy that didn’t need announcing. They kicked off their shoes in the hallway like kids home from a field trip. Kang-hyuk’s jacket missed the coat rack and landed on the floor. Jaewon bumped into the console and nearly knocked over the diffuser.

“Smooth,” Kang-hyuk said.

“I’m graceful,” Jaewon replied, pulling off his tie with a dramatic twirl and then immediately tangling it around his own arm. “Fuck—wait—”

“Poetry in motion.”

“Shut up.”

The apartment smelled like lavender and fabric softener. Their world. Their mess. Two mugs still in the sink from this morning, a half-folded blanket on the couch, the faint scent of rice from the cooker Jaewon forgot to unplug.

“Shower?” Kang-hyuk offered, already peeling off his socks. “Rock, paper, scissors for who goes first?”

“I’m too tired to even pretend I care.”

Kang-hyuk raised a brow. “So… me first?”

Jaewon was already walking toward the bedroom. “Enjoy. I’ll be asleep by the time you’re out.”

“Sure,” Kang-hyuk called after him. “And you’ll drool on my pillow again.”

“I make your pillow better.”

“You’re so delusional.”

He heard Jaewon mumble something unintelligible as he disappeared down the hallway, the sound of dresser drawers opening and sleepy footsteps padding across the floor. Kang-hyuk shook his head fondly and ducked into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, hair damp and skin flushed from the steam, he found Jaewon in bed already—but very much not asleep.

He was lying diagonally across the mattress like a fallen deity, a mess of blankets tangled around him, one leg dramatically kicked out from beneath the covers.

“What is this?” Kang-hyuk blinked.

Jaewon cracked one eye open. “This is my empire. Get your own corner.”

“There are no corners left.”

Kang-hyuk tossed the towel aside, climbed onto the bed, and began the slow process of untangling his partner like he was peeling apart a wayward croissant. “You realize you sleep like you’re in a drama.”

“I am the drama.”

“Move your arm.”

“No.”

Kang-hyuk fell beside him with an exaggerated thud, stealing a corner of the blanket and wrapping it around himself. Jaewon scooted over two inches, sighed dramatically, then inched over another five. Eventually, he tucked himself in properly—head on Kang-hyuk’s chest, hand tracing idle circles over his shirt.

“Better,” Jaewon mumbled.

“God, you’re a handful.”

“I’m perfect.”

Kang-hyuk turned his head, pressed a kiss into Jaewon’s hair.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled in limbs and warmth, the hush of the night pressing gently against the windows. The playlist Jaewon always slept to played low in the background—piano keys, ocean waves, something with birdsong.

"I'm glad you agreed to my suggestion on telling the board about us, our relationship,” Kang-hyuk murmured.

Jaewon didn’t respond right away. Then, softly, “I just wanted it to come from us, you know? Not from whispers. Not from someone guessing at something and turning it into a scandal.”

“It won’t be a scandal,” Kang-hyuk whispered. “We’re not a secret.”

“No. But we were… something sacred. And I didn’t want to give that up just for hospital politics.”

“You’re not giving it up. You’re choosing to own it.”

Jaewon’s fingers curled into his shirt.

“I’ll draft the letter tomorrow,” Kang-hyuk said. “We’ll do it together.”

“Okay.”

They fell quiet again.

Kang-hyuk brushed a stray curl from Jaewon’s forehead. “Want me to read something?”

“You always fall asleep halfway through.”

“You like it when I do that.”

“Because you snore. It’s funny.”

“You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Another kiss, this time to Jaewon’s cheek. He nestled in deeper, breath slowing.

“Goodnight, love,” Kang-hyuk murmured.

“Night,” Jaewon whispered. “Thanks for the tart.”

Kang-hyuk smiled into the dark. “Anytime.”

And like that, the night curled around them like a second blanket—soft and full of stars, the kind you didn’t need to see to believe in. Two men who had once survived storms now asleep in their own quiet weather, learning still how to hold joy without bracing for loss.

Love didn’t need fireworks tonight. Just the sound of two heartbeats syncing. A playlist looping. And warmth that didn’t fade.

---

Morning crept in gently, like a secret. The sun peeked through the blinds in slow golden stripes, slanting across the hardwood floor and warming the folds of the rumpled duvet. Somewhere outside, birds chirped like they were singing just for them. Inside, the apartment still smelled faintly of lavender body wash and clean laundry—quiet signs that love lived here now.

Kang-hyuk woke first. Barely.

His eyes blinked open only halfway, eyelashes fluttering as the morning light reached across his face. Jaewon was still tangled beside him, dead to the world, breathing deep and steady against Kang-hyuk’s chest. His cheek was squished into the soft fabric of Kang-hyuk’s sleep shirt, lips parted slightly, hair sticking up in five different directions.

Kang-hyuk stared at him, dopey with fondness. This was the kind of peace that made a man forget how sharp he used to be.

Carefully—like someone handling a wild animal—he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Jaewon’s forehead.

Nothing.

Another kiss to the tip of his nose.

Still nothing.

“Rise and shine, doctor,” Kang-hyuk whispered, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re on breakfast duty.”

“Mmmrhgh.”

Jaewon shifted only to curl deeper into the blanket burrito he’d fashioned around himself. One hand poked out long enough to smack Kang-hyuk’s thigh.

“Violence?” Kang-hyuk murmured. “In this economy?”

“You startle me before nine a.m. again, and I’ll kill you with a thermometer.”

“You need a thermometer to function,” Kang-hyuk said. “You’d die without at least five instruments.”

Another groan. Another arm flop. Then, “Fine. Coffee. I’ll make it. Don’t touch anything.”

But Kang-hyuk was already out of bed, yawning exaggeratedly, his hair a fluffy mess and his sweatpants riding dangerously low. Jaewon lifted the blanket just enough to peer at him with a judging stare.

“You look like a tired golden retriever.”

“You love dogs,” Kang-hyuk said smugly, disappearing into the kitchen. “Your standards are low.”

Jaewon dragged himself up five minutes later, shuffling out in one of Kang-hyuk’s hoodies—comically oversized, sleeves swallowing his hands, collar falling just low enough to hint at his collarbone. His expression was that of a man who had known joy but now knew exhaustion.

He rubbed his eyes with his fists, muttered something about “smells like you made burnt despair,” and pointed accusingly at the toaster.

“Let the record show,” he announced, voice still raspy, “that Kang-hyuk should not be left unattended with bread.”

Kang-hyuk, shirtless now and trying to salvage the remains of his toast massacre, looked up with his most innocent expression. “In my defense, the toaster hates me.”

“Everything hates you when you do it wrong.”

“Harsh, Yang Jaewon.”

Jaewon sat at the kitchen table like a retired mob boss, watching Kang-hyuk flit between the coffee machine and the stove like a frantic cooking show contestant. He accepted the mug Kang-hyuk eventually slid across the table and took a long sip, eyes fluttering closed as warmth settled into his bones.

Then, “Okay. Let’s draft that letter.”

Kang-hyuk paused mid-egg flip.

“You’re serious?”

Jaewon nodded, already pulling out his laptop. “Before we forget. Before we find excuses not to.”

Something about his tone—soft but sure—made Kang-hyuk’s chest tighten. This wasn’t fear talking anymore. This wasn’t shame. It was something steadier. A choice.

So he set the pan down, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and walked over to sit beside Jaewon at the table.

They stared at the blank document for a long second. Then Jaewon typed:

To the Hospital Board,

We hope this finds you well.

Kang-hyuk smiled. “You always write like we’re about to deliver bad news.”

“We are. We’re telling them I’m dating you.”

He elbowed Jaewon in the side and took over the keyboard.

We are writing to inform you that we are currently in a committed relationship, and in light of our shared responsibilities in the Trauma Division, we believe it is important to be transparent to prevent misunderstandings.

Jaewon leaned in, resting his chin on Kang-hyuk’s shoulder. “That sounds very professional. Very I-promise-we’re-not-making-out-in-the-OR.”

Kang-hyuk grinned. “That’s implied.”

They finished it together—simple, honest, with all the necessary disclosures. Then they both signed their names at the bottom, side by side.

“Done,” Kang-hyuk whispered.

Jaewon stared at the screen. “Feels real.”

“It is real,” Kang-hyuk said gently, closing the laptop. “But it doesn’t change anything. We still bicker over toast. You still hoard my hoodies.”

“You love it when I wear them.”

“Unfortunately,” Kang-hyuk sighed. “Yes.”

Jaewon chuckled, slow and warm, and leaned in again to press a kiss just below Kang-hyuk’s jaw.

“Send it later,” he murmured. “Right now, I want pancakes.”

“I thought you said I couldn’t cook.”

“I’m supervising. You’re the sous chef.”

“Unpaid labor.”

“Consider it rent.”

Kang-hyuk groaned, but he was already standing, already reaching for the mixing bowl, already smiling like the idiot in love that he was.

And the morning went on like that. Batter on fingers. Syrup in the wrong places. Laughter echoing off the tile. Two toothbrushes on the sink. Matching socks nowhere to be found. The domesticness of it all—quiet and bright, a song neither of them had ever known the words to until now, but somehow sang perfectly in tune.

---

It began innocently.

A Thursday morning, sun washing the corridors in a soft golden hue, the coffee machines sputtering to life, and the trauma wing humming its usual pre-rounds rhythm—white coats fluttering, clipboards shuffling, residents scurrying between departments with under-eye bags and half-eaten toast in hand.

And then it arrived.The email.

From: HR Department
Subject: Relational Disclosure Notice – Dr. Yang Jaewon & Dr. Baek Kang-Hyuk

Just one click.

Just one.

And the entire hospital fell into utter disarray.

---

Nurse Station – 07:38 AM

Nurse Minji was the first to read it. She blinked. Scrolled again. Read it a third time. Her lips parted slowly.

And then she screamed.

“OH MY GOD—NO WAY—”

Her chair toppled behind her. Nurse Bora spun around from the meds cart. “What? What happened? Are we being shut down again? Did someone die?”

Minji pointed at the screen. Her voice cracked. “THEY’RE DATING. THEY ACTUALLY. ACTUALLY. DATING.”

Bora's tablet slipped from her hands. “Wait—who’s dating?!”

Minji turned the monitor around.

There it was, in all its HR glory: Professional. Respectful. Boringly formal. But with names that lit the break room on fire.

Professor Baek Kang Hyuk & Dr. Yang Jaewon… have submitted a relationship disclosure, effective immediately. The document has been reviewed by HR and deemed non-conflictual. All parties are expected to treat this with discretion and continue operations as normal.

No one continued anything as normal.

Bora screeched. Minji dropped a cup of pudding. Three interns screamed in unison.

“You mean to tell me,” said Minji, breathlessly, “that this wasn’t just in my delusions?”

“WHAT ABOUT THAT TIME IN THE SUPPLY CLOSET—”

“I TOLD YOU THEY WERE IN LOVE—”

“WE LITERALLY SHIP THEM ON THE GROUPCHAT CALLED ‘KDRAMA TRAUMA’!”

Meanwhile – The Cafeteria, 08:12 AM

It spread like wildfire.

By the time breakfast trays were being cleared, at least four departments were running on pure gossip and decaf.

At Table 5, where the new batch of residents always huddled, the energy was nuclear.

“So…” whispered Resident 1, barely able to chew his sandwich, “they’re, like… together?”

Resident 2 (who had only joined a month ago and had a mild crush on Jaewon), “Wait. Was this allowed? Isn’t that, like, illegal or something??”

Resident 3, the cool-headed one, “No, dumbass, HR-approved relationships are fine. There’s a whole policy.”

Resident 4, staring at her phone, eyes wide, “They even signed the letter together… Like… together together…”

A pause.

Then all four of them screamed into their sleeves.

“I CAN’T GO TO ROUNDS NOW—WHAT IF I BLUSH—”

“Do you think this is why Professor Baek always looked like he was gonna bite someone if Dr. Yang got yelled at??”

“Dr. Yang glared at me last week for asking if Professor Baek had plans this weekend—NOW I KNOW WHY.”

“I thought it was just an intense friendship!!”

Someone at the next table overheard and cackled. “Honey, there’s no such thing as ‘intense friendship’ when it comes to that kind of eye contact.”

Trauma Team Conference Room – 08:45 AM

Chief Han stared at the email in silence.

The room around him buzzed like a nest of hornets.

Resident after resident kept reading the message on their tablets, glancing at each other like they were in some secret, shared hallucination. The second years were pacing. The interns were on the verge of tears. Chief Han? He simply stood there, sipping from his black coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity.

And then the door opened.

Kang-hyuk and Jaewon stepped in.

Both of them—fresh-faced, composed, walking side-by-side in scrubs like they weren’t about to unleash an emotional earthquake onto the people who worshipped the ground they operated on.

A hush fell.

You could’ve heard a blood pressure cuff drop.

Kang-hyuk blinked. “Did something happen?”

No one answered.

Jaewon, without looking up from his clipboard, muttered, “Why is everyone staring?”

Minji—shaking, glowing, halfway to tears—stood. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “You guys are official.”

Kang-hyuk went rigid.

Jaewon dropped his pen.

A resident in the back screamed into a rolled-up folder.

Then came the chaos.

“HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?!”

“DID YOU MEET IN MED SCHOOL OR WAS IT POST-RESIDENCY?”

“DID YOU HAVE A SECRET FIRST DATE?? OH MY GOD TELL US—”

“DID YOU KISS IN THE ON-CALL ROOM?!?”

“PLEASE, I NEED TO KNOW WHO SAID ‘I LOVE YOU’ FIRST—”

Kang-hyuk’s face turned the color of a surgical drape. Jaewon tried to open his mouth and close it three times. It did not work.

From the back, one of the residents whispered in awe, “Is this what love looks like? Because I feel like I’m watching a romance drama unfold in real time.”

Chief Han groaned. Loudly.

“If anyone else speaks,” he said with the weight of divine judgment, “you will all be reassigned to the morgue. For a month.”

Silence fell. Residents ducked.

Jaewon sighed and rubbed his temple. “Okay. Yes. It’s true. It’s been a while. We submitted the disclosure so everyone could stop whispering about it in the group chats we’re not in.”

Minji gasped. “YOU KNEW ABOUT THE GROUPCHATS?”

Jaewon glanced at “Nurse Minji. Everyone knows about the group chats.”

Kang-hyuk said quietly, “Wait, you’re in the group chat?”

Minji said proudly, “Admin. Founder. Meme curator.”

Jang-Mi, Gyeong-Won, and Dong-Ju were only giggling from the door frame. They were enjoying the view of Jaewon and Kang-hyuk being swamped by questions coming from the other nurses and Residents. As for Chief Han, he slowly approached them at the door frame and sighed, "Will this chaos ever be over?" 

Dong-Ju chuckled softly, "I'll say it'll take about 2 weeks for the whole hospital to move on from this news, Chief."

"Probably a month," Gyeong-Won added with a nod.

Chief Handd could only sigh tiredly and nod in agreement.

As the team eventually moved on, still in dazed shock, residents buzzing like bees trying to keep their cool, the ripple of chaos didn’t stop.

In Radiology, they started a betting pool about who made the first move.

In Internal Medicine, three doctors began writing fanfiction.

In ER, someone printed out the email and taped it to the staff fridge under the words: “True Love Is HR-Compliant 💌”

And in the quiet of the hallway outside, Kang-hyuk and Jaewon leaned side-by-side against the wall.

“Do you regret it?” Jaewon asked softly.

Kang-hyuk shook his head with a smile. “I think it’s the funniest day of my life.”

“Someone asked if we kissed in the on-call room.”

“Didn’t we?”

“...Shut up.”

They shared a grin. Their hands brushed. The residents may have been in chaos. The hospital might never know peace again. But love? Love was holding steady in the trauma wing.

Chapter Text

Trauma Wing, Morning Shift Change

Somewhere between coffee breath and cardiac charts, the new era began. The hospital didn’t announce it with fireworks or a parade—just with the soft hiss of automatic doors, a squeak of polished shoes, and the nervous rustling of folders in the hands of half-sleep-deprived young doctors who had no idea what they were walking into.

Three residents. New faces. New energy.

“It’s today, isn’t it?” Jang-Mi whispered like a kid on Christmas morning as she balanced two paper cups of coffee in her arms. She had tied her hair back into a neater ponytail than usual and was wearing lip tint, which meant she was excited. “The new batch.”

Gyeong-Won reached into his coat pocket, snagged one of the cups, and sipped without looking. “Mmm. Poor souls. May God grant them patience and good shoes.”

“Do you think they’ll cry?”

“They always cry."

The trauma wing smelled of antiseptic, overbrewed coffee, and something vaguely electric—the scent of chaos waiting to happen. It was 6:42 a.m., and most of the hospital hadn’t woken up yet. But the trauma bay, as always, was a creature that never slept—only blinked slower sometimes.

The automatic doors hissed open, and in walked a young woman, stiff-backed and bleary-eyed, clutching her ID badge like it might fly away if she let go.

“Resident Lee Soo-min,” she muttered under her breath, trying out her title for the thousandth time that morning. Her lab coat was freshly pressed but slightly too big. Her glasses had begun to fog with nerves, and her black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense bun that already had a pencil tucked in by accident. She stood just inside the doorway, blinking at the controlled storm of the trauma ward—nurses moving with practiced urgency, the whirr of stretchers being pushed, someone yelling about charting codes, another person yelling about coffee.

She took a shaky step forward, bowed at no one in particular, and found a quiet corner near the nurse station to stand in.

“First to arrive. That’s something, right?” she whispered to herself.

The doors opened again—this time in a blur of wind and motion.

“Sorry! Sorry—I’m not late, am I?!” A young woman in mismatched socks and scrubs stormed in, a coffee cup in one hand, a granola bar in the other, and exactly three pens sticking out of the messy bun on top of her head.

She skidded to a stop beside Soo-min. “Park Ji-yoon. First year. Technically early if you ignore the part where I followed a code blue to Cardiology. Someone mistook me for a rapid response, and I didn’t correct them. Honestly, I think I accidentally started CPR on a mannequin, but who can say?”

Soo-min blinked. “You… what?”

Ji-yoon just grinned, unbothered. “Want a bite?” she offered the granola bar like a peace treaty.

Before Soo-min could answer, the doors hissed open again.

This time it wasn’t noise. It was silence. Weight. Like someone important had stepped into the room and the air had adjusted itself accordingly.

Choi Dae-hyun walked in like a man returning to familiar territory. Crew-cut hair, regulation posture, and an expression carved from granite. His sleeves were rolled neatly past his elbows, his boots somehow polished despite hospital policy suggesting sneakers.

“Resident Choi Dae-hyun. Reporting for trauma. Sir.”

He said it to no one and to everyone. He joined the crooked line the other two had unintentionally formed, standing exactly one shoulder’s width away from them.

Ji-yoon stared at him. “Do you shine your boots before rounds, or do they just come that way?”

He didn’t respond. He just stood straighter.

“Okay, mystery man,” she whispered. “Challenge accepted.”

A flurry of voices carried down the hall. Someone yelling about missing clamps, another yelling about missing kidneys, and a nurse arguing with a vending machine. The new residents shared a look of mutual panic.

And then, like the tide pulling back before a wave, the corridor grew quiet.

Footsteps.

Steady. Intentional. Crisp, like the sound of order cutting through disorder.

Kang Hyuk had entered the trauma bay like a weather front. Not storming, exactly—but moving with that undeniable presence of someone who carried silence like a second stethoscope. His white coat flared with each step, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, eyes focused on whatever lived on the screen.

He didn’t slow as he passed them.

He didn’t have to.

He stopped just short of the central whiteboard, lifted his gaze once—and in that single glance, saw everything.

“You’re early,” he said, voice low, not unkind. “Good.”

That was all.

Soo-min bowed again. Dae-hyun nodded like a soldier. Ji-yoon stared openly.

“Whoa,” she muttered. “He’s taller than I thought he’d be—like scary-tall. Did you see the coat flare? That’s coat-fu. I bet he times it.”

“Resident Park,” Soo-min hissed, horrified.

But Kang-hyuk didn’t comment. He was already reading vitals off the whiteboard.

And then the doors opened one final time—and sunlight walked in with them.

Jaewon appeared in a half-zipped scrub jacket, ID dangling, surgical mask pushed below his chin, a tupperware of leftover japchae in one hand. His hair was still damp from a too-quick shower, and his smile was soft around the edges, sleep-wrinkled and fond. He looked like someone who had just made coffee for the love of his life, and didn’t care if the toast burned.

“Ah, the newbies,” Jaewon said, stopping beside Kang-hyuk with the casual comfort of someone who lived there. He scanned the three residents and grinned wider. “You all made it in one piece. That’s already a small miracle.”

Kang-hyuk handed him the tablet without looking. Jaewon took it without asking.

“I’m Dr. Yang Jaewon,” he continued. “You’ll be seeing a lot of me. Possibly too much. But I give good feedback, I carry snacks, and I only snap when you forget to check ABGs before handing me a trauma case.”

Behind him, Kang-hyuk deadpanned, “He also sings while charting.”

“I sing well while charting,” Jaewon corrected. “Anyway—this here is Professor Baek Kang-hyuk. Technically, he outranks everyone, but emotionally, he’s still just a softie who steals pudding from the staff fridge.”

“I am not,” Kang-hyuk muttered, sipping his coffee.

Ji-yoon raised a hand. “Is it true he once set a tray on fire during a liver repair because the attending kept calling him ‘son’?”

Jaewon blinked. “No comment.”

Soo-min stared at the two of them, then at the other residents. “Wait… are they—?”

Dae-hyun, who hadn’t spoken since arriving, offered one dry sentence. “They live together. It’s on the gossip board.”

Ji-yoon whispered, awed, “I love this hospital.”

Before Jaewon could clarify—or lie, or tease—Jang-Mi burst into the hallway with her usual whirlwind energy, arms full of clipboards and an open pack of seaweed snacks.

“There you are! My new baby residents!” she cried, dumping clipboards into their hands. “Here’s your pre-round cheat sheets, the trauma bay rotation schedule, and a list of coffee orders. You learn fast, you survive. You cry fast, I hug you.”

Gyeong-Won followed a second later with a lazy wave, earbuds still in. “Ignore Jang-Mi. She makes her own coffee wrong and blames the interns.”

“You said it tasted like betrayal,” Jang-Mi snapped.

“Because it did.”

And just like that, the trauma team began to swell around them—laughing, arguing, organizing. The new residents found themselves swept into the fold. Ji-yoon got assigned to Jang-Mi’s shift and promised not to blow anything up. Soo-min got swept into Gyeong-Won’s ICU tour and instantly began taking notes. Dae-hyun remained straight-backed, already helping a nurse lift a gurney.

And through it all, Jaewon stood beside Kang-hyuk, watching them go—watching the next generation of chaos, of laughter, of healing take root.

Kang-hyuk glanced at him.

“You’re smiling like a proud uncle,” he murmured.

Jaewon bumped their shoulders together. “We’re building something good here.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to.

He just watched, coffee in hand, as his new residents began to find their footing.

And quietly, fiercely, he decided, He would protect them all.

---

The trauma bay was loud even when it was quiet.

Beeping monitors, clattering wheels, the low thrum of filtered air through metal vents, the occasional overhead page crackling like lightning across a summer sky. And today—this morning—everything felt sharper. Like the hospital itself had exhaled and held its breath, waiting.

Soo-min was nervously rearranging the trauma kit again.

“Do you really need to reorganize the gauze for the fifth time?” Ji-yoon whispered, peering into the drawer.

Soo-min blushed. “It wasn’t sorted by size.”

“Well, we’re not performing gauze origami—”

Dae-hyun cleared his throat. “Both of you. Focus.”

They were interrupted by a soft tap of shoes—Jaewon entered the trauma bay like calm incarnate, stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck, scrub top slightly wrinkled from being on-call the night before. He was sipping from a cup of warm barley tea and greeting nurses by name, his hand resting briefly on their shoulders as he asked about their shifts.

The moment he spotted his fledgling trio, he gave them a half-smile, that gentle one that made him seem more like a sunbeam than a surgeon.

“Morning, you three. Got any sleep?”

“No,” Ji-yoon replied flatly.

“A bit,” said Soo-min.

“Five hours and twenty-six minutes,” Dae-hyun muttered, ever precise.

Jaewon chuckled. “We’ll work on getting that up to six. Maybe by your second year.” He moved closer, leaning casually against the counter, eyes flicking over the trauma bay like a conductor checking his orchestra before a concert. “Stick close to me today. First traumas are… memorable.”

Ji-yoon raised an eyebrow. “Memorable in a good way?”

“In a way you’ll talk about during therapy,” Jaewon replied without missing a beat.

But before they could laugh, the moment shattered.

“Trauma Team, CODE RED incoming—MVC, multiple passengers, unstable vitals—ETA 3 minutes.”

The trauma bay snapped to life.

It was like a switch flipped, and the hospital staff moved with a terrifying, breathtaking synchronicity. Gurneys prepped. Gloves snapped on. Monitors booted up. The automatic trauma doors groaned open like a curtain rising on a battlefield.

“Positions,” Jaewon said firmly, stepping forward and instantly shedding his softness like a coat. “Park, with me. Lee, at the side cart. Choi, airway support. Gloves now. Think fast, move faster.”

Ji-yoon almost tripped trying to get her gloves on. Soo-min’s glasses slipped down her nose as she fumbled for the suction tubing. Dae-hyun stood as straight as a steel beam, expression already locked in.

Then—footsteps. Loud, heavy, authoritative.

Kang-hyuk stormed in, flanked by a flurry of nurses and interns scrambling to get out of his path. His coat flared behind him, tablet already in hand, voice slicing through the room like thunder.

“Vitals?”

Jaewon answered without looking up. “One DOA at the scene, three incoming. First—18-year-old male, crushed chest. BP dropping.”

Kang-hyuk barked, “Get me a chest tube, now. Who the hell is on respiratory?”

“Resident Choi,” Jaewon said quickly, nodding toward Dae-hyun.

Kang-hyuk turned to him, eyes sharp. “You’ve tubed a collapsed lung before?”

“Yes, Professor. During army deployment, twice.”

“Do it again. Perfectly this time.”

Dae-hyun moved, steady hands betraying none of the spike in his pulse.

Ji-yoon scrambled to clamp an IV line, nearly knocking over a tray. Soo-min dropped a sterile cap but recovered quickly, breath hitching.

“Resident Lee,” Kang-hyuk snapped, voice like a gunshot. “This isn’t a prep school. This is trauma. If you hesitate, someone dies.”

Soo-min bowed, flustered. “Yes, Professor.”

And then—

“Where the hell is Dong-Ju?!” Kang-hyuk bellowed toward the hallway.

The residents all jumped.

Jaewon, unbothered, casually tightened a tourniquet. “Probably still at the elevator.”

As if summoned by sheer volume, a figure rounded the corner, sliding slightly on the polished floor. Tall, handsome, dark scrubs, surgical bag slung over one shoulder.

“Oh my god,” Ji-yoon muttered, staring. “Is that—?”

“Seo Dong-Ju!” Kang-hyuk shouted again, louder this time.

The man groaned mid-stride. “I heard you the first time, hyung!”

He threw down his bag, scrubbed in with a practiced roll of his shoulders, and gloved up like he hadn’t just come running from the parking lot.

The residents blinked.

“That’s an attending?” Soo-min whispered, incredulous.

“He’s…” Ji-yoon trailed off. “Kind of hot?”

Dae-hyun looked unimpressed. “He’s two minutes late.”

Dong-Ju reached their side just in time to help Jaewon suction the patient’s airway. “You left me on read, hyung.”

Jaewon replied dryly, “I was busy not letting someone die.”

“Excuses.”

Another gurney rolled in. Blood-soaked sheets, a fractured femur, someone screaming for their sister. The second wave had arrived. There was no time to breathe.

Kang-hyuk was already elbow-deep in a thoracostomy. “Dong-Ju, manage bay two. If I see your patient desaturate again, I’m sending you back to fellowship.”

“Harsh,” Dong-Ju muttered, but he obeyed.

It was like watching clockwork gears spin: Jaewon calling out dosages and scan orders, Kang-hyuk shouting for suction, Dong-Ju flipping a patient to stabilize a spine. Chaos, yes—but a kind the trauma team knew how to wield like a sword.

In the eye of the storm, the new residents tried not to drown.

And somehow—through blood and panic and adrenaline—each of them found their place.

Soo-min passed a clamp just in time. Ji-yoon held a pulse steady with both hands and refused to flinch. Dae-hyun tubed the patient cleanly, just as he’d promised.

When the final suture was tied and the last patient wheeled to the ICU, silence settled again.

A breath held.

Then released.

Jaewon peeled off his gloves. “Welcome to trauma,” he said, looking at the three of them with something between pride and sympathy.

Kang-hyuk didn’t say anything.

But as he passed Soo-min, he dropped a fresh surgical cap into her hands without comment. And when Dae-hyun looked like he was about to collapse, Kang-hyuk wordlessly handed him a water bottle, already opened.

Ji-yoon whispered, “Wait… did Professor Baek just… care?”

Dong-Ju walked by, patting her on the shoulder. “He does. Just… violently.”

Jaewon laughed. “You'll get used to it.”

They stood there, soaked in sweat and chaos and the faint metallic tang of blood, the trauma bay already being cleaned around them.

Somehow, they were smiling. The trauma team had just grown. And despite everything—It already felt like family.

---

Trauma Unit Break Room—6:27 PM

The air smelled faintly of hospital-grade coffee, antiseptic, and the unmistakable aftermath of adrenaline—like the room itself was still catching its breath.

Soo-min sat stiffly at the edge of the long metal table, both hands folded in her lap like she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to touch anything yet. Across from her, Dae-hyun nursed a minor scrape on his forearm from a fallen clipboard he insisted he didn’t even feel during the chaos. Ji-yoon, of course, had already found the snack drawer like a bloodhound and was crunching on a pack of seaweed chips, legs crossed on the floor.

“You sure this isn’t someone’s lunch stash?” she mumbled mid-bite.

“It is,” Jaewon said from the coffee machine, not even turning around.

Ji-yoon blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

Jaewon turned, mug in hand, and smiled like a cat. “Mine.”

Ji-yoon froze, chips halfway to her mouth.

Then, from behind her, “Finish it. He eats three times your weight during night shifts anyway.”

The voice belonged to Jang-Mi, who strolled in with her signature red scrunchie and clipboard in hand. She looked exhausted—but in that practiced, professional kind of way that made even a disaster look manageable. Right behind her was Gyeong-Won, sleeves rolled up, stethoscope still tangled around his neck like he hadn’t noticed it there since the morning.

“And that,” Jang-Mi added, sweeping her gaze across the new trio, “is Jaewon’s way of saying welcome.”

Ji-yoon grinned. “I feel… very welcomed.”

Dae-hyun stood immediately, nodding his head in respect. “Ma’am.”

“Oh god, don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I'm not a department head, I'm just tired.” Jang-Mi flopped down into the seat beside Soo-min and offered her a wink. “You look like you haven’t breathed in two hours.”

“I—uh—thank you?” Soo-min said, unsure if it was a compliment or a diagnosis.

A moment later, the door swung open again.

“Move,” came Kang-hyuk’s voice, already inside before anyone could react.

He crossed the room like a storm about to pass, carrying an open chart, his reading glasses perched at the end of his nose, and a look that suggested someone had just tried to argue with him and lost spectacularly. The residents sat up straighter instinctively.

Behind him, Dong-Ju followed with two cups of coffee and a grin like he was used to this exact level of daily chaos.

“Sorry,” Dong-Ju said casually to the room. “He saw a misplaced decimal on a vitals chart and swore someone was trying to commit medical fraud.”

“Someone was,” Kang-hyuk muttered, already scribbling into the margins.

Dong-Ju placed a cup in front of Jaewon, who smiled and scooted over on the armrest he was occupying. Dong-Ju took the spot next to him.

Ji-yoon whispered (loudly) to Dae-hyun, “That’s the one who got yelled at earlier, right?”

“That’s Dong-Ju,” Jaewon said, voice warm, catching the whisper easily. “Our newest attending. And former trauma fellow.”

Dong-Ju waved lazily. “Surprise.”

“You’re our sunbae, then,” Soo-min said, a little too fast.

“Please don’t say that,” Dong-Ju said immediately. “I still get nosebleeds when I overthink central lines. I’m not ready to be called ‘sunbae’ just yet.”

From the corner, Gyeong-Won chuckled, mouth full of banana milk. “You’re the only attending I’ve seen who asked for backup to suture a paper cut.”

“It was bleeding aggressively,” Dong-Ju defended. “Like, personally offended.”

The room chuckled—some quietly, others with full-bellied laughter. The tension that had been coiled between the residents' shoulders since that morning finally started to unravel, thread by thread.

“I’ve been in warzones,” Dae-hyun said slowly, “and I still feel like I’m more likely to get PTSD from the nurses here.”

“You should,” Jang-Mi said. “They hold this place together.”

“They do,” Jaewon agreed, raising his coffee.

There was a beat of silence—soft, glowing, and unspoken. The kind that hangs in a room where people have fought through something together, even if they only met a few hours ago.

Then, the door opened once more.

“Is this the trauma team?” came Chief Han’s voice, clipped but not cold, like someone who had spent the last twelve hours arguing with insurance providers and still came to check on his own.

Every resident stood at once.

“Oh, don’t salute me,” Chief Han said dryly. “I’m not the president.”

Ji-yoon whispered to Dae-hyun again, “I bet he could be.”

“I can hear you,” Chief Han added, eyes locked on her.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, adjusting his tie. “Just be competent.”

Then his tone softened, just a touch, like fog lifting off a field. “You made it through your first code. That’s the worst one. It gets better after this.”

“That’s a lie,” Kang-hyuk said from the whiteboard.

“Let me pretend,” Chief Han replied without missing a beat.

And somehow, that was the moment the trauma team truly clicked into place. Not with ceremony. Not with a dramatic event or fireworks. Just with shared breath, shared coffee, and a table too small to fit them all, but large enough to hold their laughter.

Jang-Mi leaned in to the residents and whispered like a big sister at a family dinner, “Welcome to the madhouse. You’ll never be the same.”

“And you’ll never want to leave,” Jaewon added, smiling into his cup.

From somewhere behind them, Kang-hyuk muttered, “Unless you mess up your charting. Then you will leave. Via airlift.”

Laughter broke across the room again.

And somewhere in that warm, fluorescent-lit chaos, the new trauma team family was born.

Chapter Text

Trauma Wing – 11:42 AM

Rain slicked the windows. The air crackled like it knew something was coming. It began with a call over the hospital intercom—sharp, clipped, and urgent:

“Incoming three-car MVC. Two critical, one GCS 6. ETA: four minutes.”

And just like that, the air changed.

Scrub jackets flew off chairs. Coffee was abandoned mid-sip. The trauma team moved like muscle memory.

Kang-hyuk was already at the bay doors, glove snapping onto one hand, surgical mask tucked under his chin like a blade in waiting. Jaewon stood beside him, reviewing vitals sent over from EMS, his gaze laser-focused, one finger tracing the air as he mapped out the resuscitation plan.

Jang-Mi swore softly and prepped the crash carts. Gyeong-Won called out the OR standby code. Dong-Ju came barreling down the corridor with a stack of labs tucked in one arm and his trauma gown half-tied, hair still wet from a hasty shower—he hadn't meant to return this early, but the chaos had summoned him.

And the residents?

The residents were trying.

Really trying.

Ji-yoon was shadowing Jaewon, eyes darting like a new fawn in a storm. Soo-min was already trying to find a gown that fit, hands trembling but purposeful. Dae-hyun stood near the main stretcher, gloves on, eyes narrowed in that ex-military calm that made him look more prepared than he felt.

Then the doors burst open.

A rush of gurneys. Blood. Shouts. The trauma bay became a battlefield made of beeping monitors, sterile gauze, and human panic.

Kang-hyuk took the lead case without missing a breath. “GSW chest. 28. Pressure’s tanking. We need a thoracotomy tray—NOW!” He barked. They moved.

Jaewon caught the second patient, already inserting a central line mid-run. Dong-Ju was behind him in seconds, checking breath sounds, fingers flying over the chart. Jang-Mi tossed in orders, her voice cutting clear across the fog.

And in the back, Dae-hyun had already moved to stabilize the arm of the youngest victim, a girl with a compound fracture and a blood-soaked jacket. He was holding the pressure just right, just like he’d been taught—no, trained.

But then Kang-hyuk’s voice rang out, like a whip cracking through the din:

“No.3—hold the pressure point, not the retractor!”

Silence didn’t fall. It snapped. Just a half-second. A breath caught in the chest of the trauma wing.

Jaewon, elbow-deep in the second patient, stilled for a beat.

Dong-Ju’s eyes flicked up.

Their faces lit up—first in confusion, then recognition. And then—grins—knowing, mischievous, oh-it’s-happening grins.

They didn’t even have to say anything. Jaewon just gave Dong-Ju a light nudge with his shoulder, murmured, “He said it,” like it was some secret rite.

Dong-Ju shook his head in disbelief, a dry laugh under his breath. “Poor kid doesn’t even know what he unlocked.”

Across the room, Dae-hyun didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t correct it.

Didn’t question it.

He just did as told—more precisely now, steadier. A touch more confident.

He had been noticed.

Ji-yoon, meanwhile, blinked like she’d misheard. “…Did he just call him No.3?” she whispered.

Soo-min stood frozen mid-suture, thread dangling. “Was that—he really said it, didn’t he?”

“He really did,” murmured Jang-Mi from behind the curtain, already setting up a blood transfusion. “Oh no. We’ve got a new Number.”

The moment passed quickly—because it had to. There were still patients crashing. Still lives to save. Still bleeding to stop.

But the damage had been done.

The nickname had been spoken, not given gently and not awarded ceremoniously. Just thrown across the chaos like a sword. And from Kang-hyuk himself.

---

Cafeteria – 1:14 PM

The cafeteria was the usual midday mess—too many bodies in one room, too many trays clattering, and one of the vending machines making a sound like it was dying a slow, mechanical death. Somewhere near the condiment counter, someone was arguing with a rice cooker.

But at two long plastic tables shoved together at an odd angle, the trauma team had made their sacred lunchtime formation. Paper trays overflowed with kimbap, boiled eggs, instant miso, pickled radish, and cafeteria mystery meat that no one touched except Gyeong-Won (with terrifying loyalty). Ji-yoon was mid-battle with her sandwich—again. The jelly was already losing the fight against gravity, oozing out of the sides like it had somewhere to be. Soo-min sat beside her, her tea untouched, glancing sideways every five seconds like the walls might start bleeding.

Across from them, Dae-hyun was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet. Elbows tucked in, fingers drumming against his tray. His brows furrowed not in worry, but in that kind of delayed-processing way. The post-trauma-shift fog. Except this time, it wasn’t just the case. It was something else. Something Ji-yoon had been dying to bring up since they scrubbed out.

“So…” she said, dragging the syllable out like it was bait. “Was I hallucinating… or did Professor Baek actually call Dae-hyun ‘No.3’?”

A sharp clatter. Soo-min had dropped her chopsticks.

“THANK YOU,” she hissed, pointing dramatically. “I thought I dreamt that in the middle of the chaos. He actually said it, right?”

Dae-hyun blinked. “Wait. He did?”

“He so did,” Ji-yoon confirmed, leaning over the table like she was breaking state secrets. “You didn’t notice?”

“I was holding a kidney,” Dae-hyun said flatly.

“Excuses,” Soo-min muttered. “You’ve been numbered. That’s a thing.”

Jaewon, seated at the end of the table with his tie loosened and a milk carton half-emptied in front of him, raised a brow. Dong-Ju, opposite him, was busy stabbing rice cakes with the grace of a serial killer in a drama.

“Oh,” Dong-Ju said mildly, “so you heard it too.”

“You knew about this?” Ji-yoon asked. “What does it mean? What does the number mean?!”

“It means Dae-hyun’s now part of a very, very selective lineage,” Jaewon said in a grave tone, tapping his chopsticks twice for drama.

Dong-Ju leaned in. “It began years ago. During the First Intern War.”

“Oh no,” Soo-min groaned. “They’re doing the voice.”

“Shh,” Ji-yoon whispered, eyes wide. “Let them cook.”

Jaewon cleared his throat. “Professor Baek Kang-hyuk, the great and terrible—”

“I heard that,” came a familiar voice behind them.

Everyone turned. Kang-hyuk stood there, cafeteria tray in hand, looking utterly betrayed by the smell of his own lunch.

“Oh, look,” Dong-Ju said brightly. “The Oracle has arrived.”

“I’m not sitting,” Kang-hyuk warned.

“Yes, you are,” Jaewon replied calmly, scooting over. “We’re in the middle of a team history lesson.”

Kang-hyuk sat.

It was unclear whether it was out of spite or habit, but he dropped into the plastic chair like gravity was just another thing trying to ruin his day.

“Alright, back to the legend,” Dong-Ju said as if the most terrifying surgeon in the hospital hadn’t just joined their circle.

“Wait, wait—what do you mean ‘First Intern War’?” Soo-min asked. “What kind of trauma unit has that?”

“Have you met us?” Gyeong-Won chimed in, mouth full of rice. “This wing eats people alive. Honestly, Dae-hyun getting ‘No.3’ is the closest thing to a promotion we offer.”

Jang-Mi nodded solemnly. “It’s not just a number. It’s an identity.”

“It started because Professor Baek—” Jaewon said, nodding at the man himself, “—decided names were inefficient.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t even deny it. He just drank his soup.

“I got ‘No.1’ when he refused to learn my full name and said I was ‘acceptable enough to remember,’” Jaewon said.

"You're lucky enough that I no longer call you Anus," Kang-hyuk added with a smirk. Jaewon rolled his eyes, then scoffed. 

“I got ‘No.2’ when I almost amputated the wrong foot,” Dong-Ju added proudly.

“You’re not supposed to be proud of that,” Soo-min muttered.

“But I yelled at him enough that it stuck,” Kang-hyuk mumbled.

Ji-yoon turned to Dae-hyun, eyes wide. “So you’re No.3. That means…”

“I guess I’m acceptable now?” Dae-hyun said uncertainly.

“He’s been watching you,” Jaewon said with mock eeriness.

"Agh, don’t make it weird,” Kang-hyuk snapped.

“But it’s true,” Dong-Ju insisted. “It’s how it always happens. He sees potential. He won’t say it. He won’t admit it. But he’ll label it. With a number.”

Ji-yoon stared at Dae-hyun like he’d grown another head. “I’m so jealous.”

“Why?!” Dae-hyun asked, half-panicked.

“Because it’s weird and mysterious and possibly cursed!” she said with delight.

“It is cursed,” Jang-Mi said. “Gyeong-Won got called No.5 for three months and nearly lost his spleen.”

“I still have it! And please, I prefer getting called by my name,” Gyeong-Won said.

“Do you?” Jang-Mi deadpanned.

“So who’s No.4?” Soo-min asked.

Everyone at the table went quiet.

Jaewon and Dong-Ju exchanged a look. Jaewon said, low and ominous, “We don’t talk about No.4.”

Kang-hyuk sighed like he had a headache made entirely of interns.

“I didn’t even mean to say it out loud,” he grumbled.

“But you did,” Jaewon said. “And now it’s done. Welcome to the hierarchy, No.3.”

Dae-hyun looked vaguely haunted.

Kang-hyuk picked up his rice, pretending not to care. “It’s just easier. Shorter. Efficient.”

“It’s affection,” Dong-Ju whispered to Soo-min.

“Terrifying affection,” Jaewon whispered back.

At the edge of the table, Dae-hyun slowly started to smile. Just a little. Just enough.

And under the awful cafeteria lights, with soy sauce packets scattered like confetti and half the team still in blood-specked scrubs, something golden thrummed between them. A strange warmth. An unspoken pride. The weirdest initiation into something that wasn’t quite a family—but was dangerously close.

Even if Kang-hyuk would rather bite his own tongue than say it out loud.

---

Trauma Wing – 10:36 AM

The hospital was humming the way it always did mid-morning—not in chaos, not in quiet, but in that lull before the next storm. Sunlight poured in through the high windows of the trauma wing, glancing off stainless steel and glimmering over tile. Somewhere down the hallway, someone was laughing too loud. An overhead call asked for a cardiologist, stat. Jaewon barely looked up from his patient chart as he signed it with a practiced flick of his pen.

“Remind me again why this place doesn’t have a café with real coffee?” Ji-yoon groaned, dragging her IV cart alongside her like it personally betrayed her.

“You say that like you didn’t have three shots of espresso before rounds,” Soo-min replied, eyes still glued to her notes as she scribbled furiously in her tiny, battered memo book.

“Desperation,” Ji-yoon said. “Fuelled by fear. I saw Chief Han look at me for like two seconds longer than normal today. I thought my soul was going to leave my body.”

From behind them, Dae-hyun let out the softest of snorts, head bent as he double-checked the vitals logged from their 8AM post-op patient.

“He was staring at you because you were wearing two different shoes,” he said mildly.

Ji-yoon gasped. “You noticed?!”

“You were limping.”

“I thought it added character.”

Soo-min didn’t even blink. “You wore your gym sneakers to work again, didn’t you?”

They were halfway down the corridor when they passed Jaewon by the nurse’s station. He looked up from the chart he was reading and gave them a nod. Ji-yoon beamed. Soo-min managed a small bow. Dae-hyun quietly followed behind them, adjusting the IV line. To anyone watching, it looked like the start of just another normal day.

But the cracks started small.

Barely-there. And in the beginning, no one noticed.

Operating Room 2 – 1:04 PM

Soo-min had been assigned to assist on a lap chole with Dr. Min, a visiting attending from thoracics. She wasn’t trauma, wasn’t particularly warm, and had the kind of eyes that saw everything and made you feel like you already did it wrong. Still, Soo-min had scrubbed in, memorized every line of the patient file, and tried to remember all the details Jaewon once told her about dealing with “territorial attendings.”

“Be respectful, be sharp, and don’t flinch,” he had said. “They sense fear like sharks.”

And Soo-min had done well. For the first fifteen minutes, everything moved smoothly. She retracted. She handed off tools. She kept the field dry and the camera steady.

Then, something happened. The attending asked for suction, and Soo-min reached for the Yankauer on instinct—only to find it wasn’t in the tray. She hesitated. Looked up. The nurse was already turning to fetch it. A beat, maybe two.

“Why are you standing there like that?” Dr. Min snapped.

Soo-min froze. “The suction isn’t on the tray, I—”

“That’s because you should’ve checked before we even started. Do you think we have time to wait for your brain to catch up?”

The scrub nurse stiffened.

“I’m sorry,” Soo-min said quickly. “I’ll—”

“Clearly, you’re not ready for basic assisting. This is embarrassing.”

The room went silent.

No one said a word.

The surgery went on, but from that moment forward, Soo-min’s hands trembled just a little. She moved quieter. Shrunk smaller. When it was over, she bowed, unsnapped her gloves, and exited the OR with her heart heavy in her chest.

Cafeteria – 2:21 PM

The lunchroom was half-empty, filled with the smell of reheated curry and yesterday’s kimchi stew. Dae-hyun had just gotten his tray—a modest portion of rice and seaweed soup—when he spotted Soo-min standing near the drinks machine, her back tense. Across from her, Dr. Min was speaking low and fast, brows raised, something clipped and sharp in her tone. A few other attendings sat nearby, eyes flicking over occasionally but saying nothing.

Dae-hyun couldn’t hear everything, but he caught:

“—should’ve known better.”

“—not my responsibility to babysit incompetence.”

And then, as Soo-min bowed, lips pressed into a thin line

“Please don’t let it happen again.”

When she turned away, her eyes were red.

Dae-hyun’s tray was forgotten. He walked straight up to her, touched her elbow gently.

“Did something happen?”

Soo-min shook her head fast. “I’m fine. Just a misunderstanding.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Please, Dae-hyun. Don’t say anything.”

But he watched her walk away, quiet and small in a way she hadn’t been that morning, and he knew she wasn’t fine.

---

Nurse Station – 3:03 PM

Jaewon was reviewing scans with Jang-Mi when one of the ortho attendings stopped by, leaned in, and said casually, “Hey, heads up—think your resident might’ve gotten chewed out today. That Thoracic's visitor was kind of brutal. I heard her ripping into Soo-min during lunch. Something about surgical etiquette?”

Jaewon’s pen stopped mid-air. “What?” he asked, voice sharp.

“Yeah. Real public scene too. Poor girl looked like she wanted to disappear.”

Behind him, Dong-Ju was already rising to his feet.

“Where?” Jaewon asked.

“Cafeteria.”

“I’ll kill her,” Dong-Ju muttered.

“Get in line,” Jaewon growled.

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the nurse’s station, white coat flaring behind him like a storm cloud. Dong-Ju was close behind.

They found Soo-min in the far corner of the lobby, clutching her tablet to her chest. Ji-yoon had found her first and was trying, clumsily, to comfort her with a vending machine orange juice and a hand on her shoulder.

Jaewon didn’t even slow down.

Kang-hyuk was already there. He stood in front of Dr. Min like he had been summoned by thunder itself, gaze like a scalpel, words measured and deadly quiet.

“I heard you humiliated one of my residents in public.”

Dr. Min blinked, scoffed. “If she can’t handle correction—”

“This wasn’t correction,” Kang-hyuk said. “It was showboating.”

“She made a mistake.”

“And you made an example. Of a trauma resident, in a case she was doing you a favor on.”

“She was slow.”

“She was abandoned.”

The lobby was dead silent. Nurses pretended not to listen. Two interns literally stopped walking.

Kang-hyuk took a step closer, voice cold. “Let me make one thing clear. No one—no one—touches my team.”

“She needs to toughen up.”

“You need to learn how to teach.”

Dr. Min narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m protecting my own.”

At that moment, Jaewon reached them, eyes burning, Dong-Ju at his side like a second flame. Ji-yoon stood, furious now, juice box still in her hand like she might throw it. Dae-hyun stood behind Soo-min like a silent guard.

“She’s one of us,” Jaewon said, voice low. “And if you ever pull something like that again—”

Dong-Ju stepped forward. “—you’ll see what correction really feels like.”

For a second, everything was still.

Then Dr. Min scoffed and turned on her heel.

Gone. Just like that.

---

Break Room – 4:00 PM

The trauma break room was dimly lit, the overhead bulbs humming in tired rhythm with the coffee machine. A faint scent of instant noodles lingered in the air, cut through by antiseptic and that familiar sterile chill every hospital carried deep in its bones. The room was small, barely enough space for the five of them and their tangled breath—but today, it felt like a shelter.

Soo-min sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, her palms wrapped around a warm compress that Ji-yoon had gently pressed into her hands. Her fingers trembled just slightly, as though the weight of the day still echoed through them. The curve of her mouth fought between composure and collapse. Ji-yoon sat close beside her, almost protectively, her leg pressed against Soo-min’s in silent reassurance.

Across the room, Dae-hyun leaned against the cabinet, arms folded, face drawn in quiet frustration. There was a new tension in him—the quiet kind, like a match just waiting to be struck.

Kang-hyuk stood by the sink, eyes unreadable, arms crossed, his knuckles pale against his coat sleeves. There was something stormlike in the way he watched Soo-min—a quiet rage he hadn’t yet let go of.

And then there was Jaewon—crouched in front of her, coat still half-buttoned from the commotion earlier, his gaze softer than anyone had seen it all day. He didn’t speak at first. Just waited, watched her face, let the silence stretch like a thread between them.

Finally, he said it. Quiet and firm. “You did nothing wrong,” he told her, voice low but steady. “You hear me?”

Soo-min nodded once, her breath catching. But her eyes were wet now, lashes clumped, lower lip trembling. “I… I should’ve caught it earlier. The stats were right there. She said I—”

“She was wrong,” Jaewon interrupted gently. “Completely. You were doing your job. And she was doing what cowards do. Picking on the quietest voice in the room.”

“I didn’t want it to get worse,” she whispered. “I thought… maybe if I stayed quiet, it would go away.”

Jaewon smiled, and it hurt to see how sad the smile was.

“You don’t ever have to be quiet in this room,” he said.

Ji-yoon reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Soo-min’s ear. “We’ve all messed up before. Remember when I almost left a clamp inside a patient during my first month?”

“That was me, actually,” Dong-Ju said, appearing at the doorway, holding a can of banana milk in each hand. “You almost left behind a clamp. I actually left behind a hemostat once.”

“Did you really?” Ji-yoon blinked.

Dong-Ju tossed one banana milk to Soo-min. “No, but it made you feel better, didn’t it?”

Soo-min let out a soft laugh—breathy, watery, but real.

He stepped further in, plopping onto the armrest of the couch and tearing open a packet of red bean cookies. He tossed it onto Soo-min’s lap.

“Next time,” he said, “you mess up—you tell us. Before it becomes someone else’s story to twist. We’ll handle it.”

“We always will,” Ji-yoon added, giving her hand a squeeze.

Dae-hyun shifted, stepping forward now, voice quieter. “You work too hard to get treated like that.”

His brows furrowed, like he was still playing back every second of that awful cafeteria scene in his head. “You were shaking. She kept raising his voice even though she knew she had an audience. That wasn’t about a medical error. That was about power.”

Soo-min looked down at her lap, blinking fast.

“She humiliated you on purpose,” Dae-hyun went on. “And I swear—if she ever does it again—”

“You’ll punch her?” Dong-Ju offered casually.

“I’ll do worse,” Dae-hyun muttered.

Kang-hyuk’s voice cut in then—cool and crisp and deadly calm.

“No one touches my residents.”

All eyes turned to him.

His arms were still crossed, jaw tense, the sharp lines of his face unmoving—but the weight in his voice was enough to still the room.

“You don’t have to be the best,” he said, staring straight at Soo-min. “You don’t even have to be perfect. You just have to care. And you do. That’s why you’re here.”

Soo-min’s lips trembled again, and she dropped her gaze to the floor, eyes swimming with unshed tears. But she nodded.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“No,” Jaewon said, gently taking one of her hands. “No ‘thank you's.’ This is what it means to be a team. To be one of us.”

“You’re not alone in this place anymore,” Ji-yoon added. “None of us are.”

There was a long pause.

Then, as if something had shifted—as if the storm had passed and the sky was finally letting in the gold of the late afternoon sun—Dong-Ju ripped open another cookie pack and tossed it toward Dae-hyun.

“Eat something before you combust,” he muttered.

“I’m not combusting,” Dae-hyun argued.

“You’re combusting in silence,” Jaewon said. “Which is worse.”

“Can someone turn the fan on?” Ji-yoon asked, fanning Soo-min. “It’s so stuffy in here.”

“It’s you,” Dong-Ju teased. “You’re always warm-blooded when you’re dramatic.”

“Oh, shut up, No.2.”

Kang-hyuk let out a long breath and turned toward the door. But before he could step out, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Next time someone tries to scare you,” he said, almost offhandedly to Soo-min, “remind them you work with me.”

It could’ve sounded like a threat.

But in the warmth of that room, beneath the hum of the vending machine and the soft clatter of red bean wrappers and the crinkle of banana milk lids popping open, it felt like something else entirely.

A promise.

And as the trauma team settled once more into their familiar, chaotic rhythm—bruised but never broken—they reminded each other what they had always been.

Not just colleagues. But family A stitched-together, loud, relentless, wildly protective family—bound not just by trauma, but by the kind of love that shows up when everything else tries to break you.

---

Hospital Elevator – 8:42 PM

The halls had finally thinned.

Most of the day-shift had vanished, trailing behind the heavy rhythm of rubber soles and the scent of hand sanitizer. Night lights flickered above like dull stars as Dr. Min pressed the elevator button, her white coat swaying faintly around her knees. Her lips were pursed tight, painted in a red that had begun to crack at the corners. The folder in her hand was gripped too tightly.

She exhaled through her nose, short and sharp, then stepped into the elevator once the doors parted with a chime.

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until the doors slid shut behind her.

Not until she shifted slightly in the mirror-lined wall and caught the broad silhouette standing silent in the corner, arms crossed, gaze leveled just above her head.

Kang-hyuk?

He didn’t say a word.

The hum of the elevator filled the silence. The cold, mechanical buzz of metal and fluorescent light.

Dr. Min adjusted her coat. “If you’ve come to intimidate me,” she said, not looking at him, “you’re wasting your time.”

“No,” Kang-hyuk replied, voice like gravel and steel. “I just came to remind you of something.”

She scoffed under her breath, the corner of her mouth twitching in disdain. “You’re very protective for a trauma team leader. Is this a habit now? Collecting stray puppies and pretending they’re surgeons?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward once. Deliberate. Calm. Close enough that the sharp scent of iodine and cold air clung to his scrubs.

“I’ve seen too many good doctors destroyed by people like you,” he said, voice low. “They come in scared, unsure, hungry to learn. You humiliate them, dress it up as discipline, and call it teaching.”

Dr. Min turned sharply. “They need to toughen up. This field isn’t for the fragile.”

“This field isn’t for cowards who punch down,” Kang-hyuk shot back.

A beat.

The elevator continued to descend—floor after floor, slow and humming, like a breath held too long.

Dr. Min’s jaw tightened. “If that resident couldn’t handle a scolding, she doesn’t belong here.”

“Soo-min,” Kang-hyuk said, eyes locked on hers now, “belongs exactly where she is. She’s competent. She’s sharp. She learns fast.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And she has us.”

Something flickered behind Dr. Min’s expression. Something that might have been indignation, or nerves, or just disbelief that he was speaking to her like this. Like she wasn’t untouchable.

“She made a mistake,” Dr. Min said again, quieter this time.

“And she’ll make more. That’s what residents do. Our job is to make sure they survive them.”

The elevator slowed. Ding. The doors opened.

And there—like it had been scripted by fate or some dramatic god—stood Jaewon. Freshly changed into his coat, hair mussed slightly from pulling off his scrub cap, a half-smile curling on his lips.

“Hyung,” he greeted, warm and casual, like he wasn’t arriving at the perfect cinematic beat. “You done for the night?”

Kang-hyuk turned to him—and for the first time in the entire day, his face softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Finally.”

They exchanged that look again. That private kind of quiet affection that didn’t need a label, didn’t need words.

Then Jaewon’s eyes slid to Dr. Min. And just like that, his smile dropped—only a fraction, but enough. His gaze sharpened. No longer warm. No longer playful. Just calm, and very, very cold.

“Oh,” he said simply. “Dr. Min.”

Dr. Min stood straighter, folder clutched to her chest, her mouth drawn in a tight, polished line. “Dr. Yang.”

They didn’t say anything else.

But Kang-hyuk stepped past her, into the hallway, falling into step beside Jaewon like they always did.

Just before turning the corner, Kang-hyuk glanced back once.

“Next time,” he said, voice echoing against the metal, “think carefully before you speak to my team like that.”

The doors slid shut behind her.

And Dr. Min, alone now in that elevator, stood staring at her own reflection in the mirrored walls—at her pressed coat, her bright lipstick, her trembling hands.

She realized something unsettling then. She wasn’t just outnumbered. She was outclassed. Outmatched.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely climbed above the Han River when the hospital stirred awake, casting long golden slants of light across the corridors of the trauma wing. Monitors beeped like gentle morning alarms, and carts clattered down the hallways, pushed by nurses with tired but purposeful hands. The day had just begun.

In the residents’ locker room, Soo-min adjusted the knot of her ponytail, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair still looked like a rushed decision. Beside her, Ji-yoon tugged on her white coat with a yawn so exaggerated it earned a glare from the automatic soap dispenser.

“You look like you fought a cat and lost,” Soo-min murmured.

“I feel like I fought a cat and lost,” Ji-yoon replied, squinting at the dark circles under her eyes. “What kind of surgery schedule runs an open bowel resection past midnight and then gives you a 6 AM consult?”

“One run by a sociopath,” Soo-min muttered.

“I heard that,” came a voice from behind the door.

Dae-hyun strolled in, already half into his coat, tie hanging loosely around his neck, hair suspiciously perfect despite the hour. He had two coffees in his hands and a third somehow balancing on top of a file folder beneath his arm.

“For the undead,” he said, offering the middle cup to Ji-yoon.

She took it without protest. “God bless you, No. 3.”

“Retired title,” he said casually. “I’m just Dae-hyun again.”

“Still can’t believe Kang-hyuk named you,” Soo-min said, her voice half awe, half judgment. “Do you know what that means?”

“I’m terrified,” Dae-hyun replied, sipping his own coffee. “Let’s round.”

The three of them worked like mismatched gears in an overclocked machine—moving, grinding, pushing forward through the shifting rhythm of the trauma ward. There was no time to breathe, only to do. To act, to respond, to learn on the fly.

Ji-yoon moved like a violinist still learning to trust her fingers—graceful in theory, but hesitant at every crescendo. Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she hovered over the open abdomen in the operating theater. She had studied the anatomy diagram until her eyes blurred, rehearsed the steps the night before, traced the lines in her textbook with her penlight under her blanket just to be sure. But under the sterile fluorescent lights, with the scent of cauterized tissue lingering and an attending watching every move, doubt seeped in through the seams of her confidence.

“Dr. Ji-yoon,” came the clipped voice behind her shoulder, sharp as a scalpel. “You clamped the wrong vessel.”

Time stopped.

Ji-yoon’s breath caught. Her fingers froze mid-motion, still holding the clamp that now pulsed faintly with blooming blood just below its hinge.

“I—No,” she stammered, “I followed the diagram… I thought—”

“You clamped the epigastric. That’s bleeding now,” the attending interrupted coldly.

The scrub nurse didn’t speak as she passed the correct clamp forward, her gaze unreadable behind the sterile mask. Ji-yoon felt heat flood her cheeks, even as her fingers obeyed out of instinct, replacing the clamp in silence.

There were no further words from the attending. Just a long, suffocating pause. And then—“Finish the field. Let anesthesia know we’re extending.”

She could feel her ears ring under the cap. Her lashes were damp from the inside of her mask. Her chest tightened, but she blinked twice, told herself: Not now. Just get through it. Hold. Steady.

Outside the OR, in the hospital’s inner corridors, Soo-min was mid-sprint—white coat flaring like a cape behind her, half a tray of bloodwork reports in one hand and her phone buzzing in the other. A code blue had been called two wards over, and the ICU attending had asked her to deliver labs to the trauma bay yesterday.

She skidded around a corner, nearly bowling over a portable X-ray technician. In her rush, the corner of a patient’s file slipped loose and fluttered to the floor like a falling leaf. She turned mid-stride to retrieve it—and that half-second’s hesitation was enough to run nearly chest-first into Dr. Hwang from the ICU.

“Dr. Soo-min,” the older woman said sharply, catching the edge of her tray with a steady hand before the papers spilled further. “You’re trauma? Try to act like it.”

“I—Yes, ma’am,” Soo-min said breathlessly, cheeks flushing.

“You’re rushing too fast to think,” Dr. Hwang continued. “Vitals from Room 407 haven’t been updated in two hours. Why?”

“I—I thought the nurse already documented—”

“Check it yourself,” she said, voice curt. “Don’t assume anything in trauma. Especially not that someone else already did your job.”

The words pierced her pride like a blunt needle. Soo-min gave a nod—quick, sharp, more to herself than anyone—and turned, clutching the papers tighter, willing her hands not to shake. The overhead speakers called for another consult in the trauma bay. She bolted again, shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floors, the reprimand echoing louder than the announcements.

Meanwhile, Dae-hyun stood in Room 512, his gloved hands steady as he peeled back the last strip of blood-soaked gauze from a wound dressing. The smell of iodine and raw antiseptic filled the room. A small boy lay on the bed, arm casted, blinking tiredly at the ceiling while his mother stood beside him, her voice sharp, tight with fear.

“I told him not to ride that bicycle down the hill—I told you, didn’t I? How many times have I said not to go that fast?!”

The boy looked down, lower lip wobbling.

“I know you’re upset,” Dae-hyun said gently, speaking directly to the mother without making it sound like a correction. “But he's scared too. That hill was steep, huh, champ?”

The boy nodded hesitantly.

“I know you're angry,” Dae-hyun continued, methodically discarding the old gauze, “but right now, you’re both safe. And his bones will heal better with your encouragement than your yelling.”

The mother’s mouth parted—she faltered. The anger gave way to a wet breath. Her eyes shimmered. She reached for her son’s good hand and held it tightly.

Dae-hyun smiled beneath his mask, taping the last edge of the new dressing down with precision. His chart was already pre-filled, labs ordered, and discharge pending.

By the time noon struck, all three of them had tasted some version of humiliation.

Ji-yoon exited the OR with her scrub cap in her hands, her knuckles white around the elastic. Soo-min sat on a bench in the stairwell for thirty seconds longer than she was supposed to, head against the cool wall, whispering reminders to herself to stop crying before rounds. And Dae-hyun? He walked into the trauma supply room, where the two of them had ducked in to regroup. He offered them both cold bottled teas from the back fridge. No words. Just a nod.

Like some silent understanding that: Yeah, that was rough. We keep going. And they did.

---

The trauma call came in sharp and sudden—a Code Red, multi-vehicle collision, two incoming, ETA five minutes.

Kang-hyuk didn’t even flinch when the call buzzed through. He glanced toward Jaewon, who was already flipping through the updated vitals on his tablet. “Call the ducklings,” Kang-hyuk said.

“Already did,” Jaewon replied with a smirk.

And like clockwork, the doors to the trauma bay burst open.

Ji-yoon was tying her hair back with one hand while tugging on gloves with the other, her brows already furrowed. Soo-min had two pens tucked behind one ear and a clipboard under her arm, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. And Dae-hyun strolled in behind them like he had just woken up from a nap, coffee still in hand.

“Morning, Professor,” Dae-hyun greeted, voice smooth. “We heard the sky is falling.”

“Two criticals inbound,” Jaewon said. “Blunt chest trauma and possible abdominal bleed. Ambulance one is yours, Ji-yoon. Soo-min, take trauma two. Dae-hyun, you're floating—triage, meds, tubes. Be fast.”

“Yes, sir,” the three said in perfect unison.

Dong-Ju, already scrubbing in, leaned toward Gyeong-Won beside him and muttered, “Why do they sound like a girl group preparing for debut?”

“They even have matching sneakers today,” Gyeong-Won muttered back. “It’s terrifying.”

Ambulance One Arrival – 10:15 AM

Ji-yoon was already in position when the first gurney rolled in. “Severe hypotension,” the EMT shouted. “BP's 72 over 40, tachycardic, massive flank bruising.”

“Possible splenic rupture,” Ji-yoon murmured to herself as she took over the airway check. “Can we get a FAST?”

“Probe’s ready,” Dae-hyun replied, sliding the ultrasound into her palm.

Her hands moved swiftly, guided by instinct and muscle memory. “Positive on Morrison’s pouch,” she called. “We’re taking her up. Notify OR.”

“Already done,” Soo-min shouted from trauma two, eyes on her own patient, a man groaning through broken ribs. “My guy’s got paradoxical breathing—prep for chest tube!”

“On it!” Dae-hyun replied, now at her side like some kind of trauma ghost, appearing where he was needed without warning.

Kang-hyuk, watching from the head of the bay, blinked.

“I didn’t even tell them what to do,” he muttered.

Jaewon, arms folded beside him, tried to hide the proud curve of his mouth. “You trained them.”

Kang-hyuk shot him a look. “Don’t say it.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m not glowing.”

“You’re glowing.”

Operating Room Hallway – 12:48 PM

After both patients were stabilized and wheeled up, Soo-min collapsed onto the bench outside the OR locker rooms, shoulders heaving from adrenaline.

“That was insane,” she breathed.

Ji-yoon sat down beside her, pulling off her surgical cap. “You didn’t even flinch with that chest tube. That was cool.”

“I forgot to breathe,” Soo-min laughed.

“You didn’t look like it,” Dae-hyun added as he appeared with a water bottle for each of them. “I thought we looked pretty iconic.”

“You always think we look iconic,” Ji-yoon deadpanned.

“Because we do,” Soo-min added. “People will write odes about us.”

Trauma Break Room – 1:30 PM

They were still laughing about Soo-min nearly falling into the supply cart when the door creaked open.

“Don’t tell me you three are actually taking a break,” Jang-Mi said, stepping in with a coffee in each hand and a sly smile.

Gyeong-Won followed behind her, arms crossed, eyes narrowing dramatically. “I see how it is. We do all the hard work for years, and suddenly the new trio gets all the credit.”

Dong-Ju was last, dramatically dragging a chair across the floor and plopping into it with a theatrical sigh. “Professor Baek barely looked at me today,” he said mournfully. “I feel… neglected.”

“Oh my God,” Soo-min choked out, nearly dropping her biscuit.

“We used to be his golden children,” Dong-Ju continued, pointing accusingly at Dae-hyun. “Now it’s all ‘Dae-hyun, hand me this,’ ‘No. 3 clamp that,’ ‘Wow, Dae-hyun, what grace, what speed—’”

“Are you quoting the nurse from earlier?” Dae-hyun asked.

“She said you moved like water,” Ji-yoon chimed in helpfully.

“She did say that,” Gyeong-Won sighed, plucking a grape from the shared tray on the table. “But to be fair, you guys did good today. Like, scary good.”

“Wait,” Jang-Mi said, her eyes narrowing in mischief. “How did you three meet anyway?”

Soo-min blinked. “Us?”

“Yes, you,” Dong-Ju said. “You act like siblings who were raised in the same dojo.”

Ji-yoon glanced at Dae-hyun, who grinned.

“It started in anatomy lab,” Dae-hyun said. “First day of med school. Ji-yoon corrected the professor’s slide about brachial plexus pathways.”

“I was right,” she added quickly.

“She was terrifying,” Soo-min said. “And I spilled my iced coffee on her shoe.”

“And I told her I forgave her if she’d be my partner for cadaver dissection,” Ji-yoon continued with a grin.

“I sat behind them both,” Dae-hyun said, “and figured, well, these two are clearly going to either solve a murder or commit one, so I’d rather be on their side.”

“And that was it,” Soo-min shrugged. “Somehow, we just clicked.”

“You remind me of us,” Jang-Mi said suddenly, her voice softer now. “Years ago. When we were terrified and overworked and trying not to kill anyone.”

“Still trying not to kill anyone,” Gyeong-Won muttered.

“Barely succeeding,” Dong-Ju added.

They laughed.

Later That Evening – Hallway Overlooking the OR

Kang-hyuk stood beside Jaewon by the glass, overlooking the OR level below. The hospital lights were starting to dim into their night mode.

“Admit it,” Jaewon murmured, “you’re proud of them.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t speak right away. He watched through the window as Ji-yoon reached for a clamp in practice, Soo-min adjusted the monitor settings like a pro, and Dae-hyun was joking with a nurse while taping down an IV.

“…They’re not bad,” he said.

“Not bad?” Jaewon laughed.

“They make less mistakes than you did in your fellowship years,” Kang-hyuk added, side-eyeing him with a small smirk.

Jaewon gave him a playful shove.

And beneath the weight of fluorescent lights and long hours and surgical clamps, somewhere in the hum of elevators and the echo of running shoes down polished halls, the next generation of trauma began to take root.

With chaos, and heart, and missteps—and each other.

---

It started like any other day.

Rounds had dragged longer than usual, the ER was understaffed again, and Soo-min had somehow ended up doing five blood draws in a row because the phlebotomy team was swamped. Ji-yoon was elbow-deep in charting, muttering under her breath at the way the system lagged every time she needed to upload a scan. And Dae-hyun was calmly peeling a tangerine in the corner of the nurse station, watching the two of them with his usual sleepy-eyed gaze, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Do you ever do anything?” Ji-yoon finally snapped, not looking up from her tablet.

“I’m observing,” Dae-hyun replied, unbothered, slipping a slice of citrus into his mouth. “Like a camera. Quiet. Reliable.”

“You’re more like a potted plant,” Soo-min chimed in, walking past with a stack of labs, cheeks flushed from the corridor sprint. “Just sitting there, soaking in the sun.”

“Plants are healing,” he deadpanned.

Ji-yoon made a face. “I swear, one day I’m going to unplug your Zen mode with a defibrillator.”

He only shrugged. “Use paddles. Not patches.”

By late afternoon, they were all dragging. Ji-yoon had survived two minor dressings and a furious consult from nephrology. Soo-min had spilled tea on her white coat. And Dae-hyun had gotten pulled into helping a new nurse find a misplaced portable EKG, a task which, to no one’s surprise, he completed effortlessly—then vanished again to his spot near the vending machine like a ghost in scrubs.

So when their pagers all buzzed at the same time, they flinched in unison.

Professor Baek : 
Meet in the trauma hallway. Now.

Ji-yoon blinked. “What the hell did we do this time?”

“Nothing?” Soo-min offered, worry crinkling her forehead.

“Stat amputation without warning?” Dae-hyun guessed, already pocketing his pen.

But when they got there, Kang-hyuk was waiting with his arms crossed, in his signature black long coat and expression of barely-contained mischief. Jaewon stood beside him, hands folded, face unreadable except for the tiniest amused smirk at the corners of his mouth.

“Ducklings,” Kang-hyuk said, eyes scanning them like a commander inspecting a squad. “I’ve cleared your shifts for the evening.”

The three of them blinked.

“Wait,” Ji-yoon said slowly. “Is this a trap?”

“It’s dinner,” Jaewon said, smile widening just a fraction. “You’re all coming. That’s an order.”

“But—wait—why?” Soo-min stammered, looking down at her ID badge as if trying to check if she was still on call.

“We didn’t do anything to deserve dinner,” Ji-yoon whispered suspiciously.

“Which is why you deserve it,” Jaewon replied simply.

“Is this—like—a test?” Dae-hyun asked, watching Kang-hyuk with narrowed eyes.

Kang-hyuk just snorted. “Relax. We’re not about to throw you into a surprise skills assessment. Though now that you mention it...”

“Sir—”

“Get your coats. Meet us downstairs in five.”

They watched as he and Jaewon walked off toward the elevators, a strange air of camaraderie between them. The moment the attending pair disappeared, Soo-min turned to the others with wide eyes.

“Are we going to die?”

“Possibly,” Ji-yoon said.

“Should we bring our CPR cards just in case?” Dae-hyun added.

Thirty minutes later, they were standing outside the glowing red lanterns of a tucked-away Chinese restaurant just down the road from the hospital—the one everyone in trauma seemed to disappear to after brutal shifts, the one with mismatched chairs and handwritten menus and the world’s most aggressively seasoned mapo tofu.

Inside, the smell of garlic and sesame oil wrapped around them like a familiar hug. The back room had been reserved. A round table was already set. There were place cards.

“...They used place cards?” Ji-yoon whispered, suspicious.

“I have a name,” Soo-min gasped. “In calligraphy.”

“What is happening?” Dae-hyun muttered.

Then—"SURPRISE!!!"

Jang-Mi popped out from behind the curtain, holding a plate of dumplings like a trophy. Gyeong-Won followed her with a tray of cold plum tea. Dong-Ju leaned on the wall with a grin so smug it could’ve been copyrighted.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

“Wait—” Soo-min blinked. “This... This is for us?”

Jang-Mi beamed. “Welcome to trauma, rookies. We don’t usually do this, but you three—well, you survived your first month. You’ve earned your salt.”

Ji-yoon sat down slowly, still eyeing everyone like a potential suspect. “You guys coordinated this?”

“With surgical precision,” Gyeong-Won said proudly.

“We even cleared your pagers for tonight,” Jaewon added, entering with Kang-hyuk at his side. “It wasn’t easy. I had to bribe the chief with mooncakes.”

“Worth it,” Kang-hyuk said, already reaching for the hot tea.

Plates arrived like magic—scallion pancakes, twice-cooked pork, spicy eggplant that made Ji-yoon blink twice but keep eating anyway. Someone brought up the time Jaewon once passed out on-call during his intern year and woke up with a nasal cannula and a Post-it on his forehead that said HYDRATE. Laughter echoed against the cracked wallpaper and bamboo fans.

Even Dae-hyun laughed. Really laughed.

Soo-min accidentally choked on her tea, and Ji-yoon passed her a napkin without missing a beat. Dae-hyun quietly rotated the lazy Susan so the sweet and sour chicken would reach her first.

They clinked their glasses of plum tea.

And under the dim light of the restaurant, with the city soft and humming outside, the trauma team’s little trio leaned into the warmth of the room and the laughter, the clatter of chopsticks and stories traded like secrets. Their first real dinner. Their first night not just as colleagues, but something else—

A team. A beginning.

---

It was somewhere between the last shrimp dumpling and the second pitcher of plum tea when Jang-Mi clapped her hands and declared, with that gleam in her eyes that meant trouble, “Okay! We’re playing a game.”

Soo-min looked up mid-bite, chopsticks halfway to her lips. “Game?”

Ji-yoon narrowed her eyes. “This feels... suspicious.”

“Suspiciously fun,” Gyeong-Won chimed in, pushing aside his empty bowl. “This is tradition.”

“Tradition?” Dae-hyun echoed, clearly dubious as he sipped his tea.

Dong-Ju grinned as he leaned forward like a conspirator. “Every new trauma class gets... initiated.”

“Y’all are making it sound like a cult,” Ji-yoon muttered.

“It kind of is,” Jang-Mi said cheerfully, pulling a half-full soju bottle from under the table like a magician revealing her favorite trick. “But a fun cult.”

Kang-hyuk, sitting at the end of the long table, let out a soft snort and waved his hand. “Don’t look at me. I’m not playing. Someone has to be sober when the bill comes.”

“A likely excuse,” Jaewon murmured, elbowing him lightly. He, however, reached for a shot glass.

“You’re playing?” Ji-yoon asked, blinking.

Jaewon gave a serene smile. “I’m off-call. And mildly curious.”

“Oh god,” Dong-Ju muttered. “If he’s playing, this is going to be dangerous.”

“So,” Jang-Mi announced, pulling a set of icebreaker cards from her coat pocket. “We’re doing ‘Spill or Sip.’ One question per round. You answer, you’re safe. If you don’t want to answer... You drink.”

Dae-hyun, who’d been lounging lazily in his seat, didn’t even blink. He reached for a glass with all the casual detachment of someone browsing a vending machine menu.

“This’ll be good,” Ji-yoon muttered.

“Alright!” Jang-Mi beamed. “First victim—Soo-min!”

Soo-min straightened like someone had just called a code blue.

“Biggest rookie mistake this month?”

She flushed instantly. “Uh—I—okay. I accidentally paged nephro for a hematology case because I saw the word ‘blood’ and panicked.”

Everyone howled.

Gyeong-Won slapped the table. “You’re officially one of us.”

“Next,” Dong-Ju grinned. “Dae-hyun.”

Dae-hyun paused mid-sip. He arched a brow, expression unreadable.

“Most emotional moment since you started here.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he calmly tossed back the shot and set it down without blinking.

Soo-min gasped, “You're not even gonna try?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Lame,” Ji-yoon deadpanned. “Coward.”

“Survivalist,” he corrected, stretching his long legs under the table.

“Alright then,” Jang-Mi said. “Ji-yoon—what’s something about one of them that drives you insane?”

Ji-yoon didn’t hesitate. “Soo-min cries at every single animal video we watch, even if it has a happy ending. Dae-hyun disappears for thirty minutes and always comes back with food, and no one knows how or where he gets it.”

Dae-hyun shrugged. “Resourcefulness.”

Soo-min squeaked, “I’m empathetic!”

“And adorable,” Gyeong-Won added.

“Next!” Dong-Ju declared, a little tipsy now. “Speed round. Everyone ready?”

The questions came like rapid-fire.

“Professor Baek—your first surgical crush?”

“I’m not playing,” Kang-hyuk said flatly, not looking up from his tea.

“That means it was someone here!” Jang-Mi yelped.

Kang-hyuk’s ears turned slightly red. “Next.”

“Gyeong-Won—have you ever lied on a chart to make a consult sound less urgent?”

He grinned. “Define ‘lie.’”

“SIP,” the table shouted.

He drank.

“Jaewon—how many people confessed to you during med school?”

Jaewon blinked slowly. “Four. That I know of.”

A chorus of WHAAAT?! exploded around him.

“Wait—four?” Dong-Ju shrieked. “Did you say four?”

“Name. Them,” Ji-yoon demanded.

“No,” Jaewon said mildly, and drank.

“Ugh, you tease,” Soo-min pouted.

The game spiraled from there—chaotic, unfiltered, loud in a way only comfort and found family can be.

“Ji-yoon,” Jang-Mi said, eyes gleaming. “Tell us your worst date ever.”

Ji-yoon exhaled like someone about to intubate a difficult airway. “Med student. Talked about himself for two hours, bragged about dissecting a cadaver. At the end of dinner, he tried to quiz me on brachial plexus branches. I paid the bill just to get out faster.”

“Kill him,” Soo-min said immediately.

“I considered it,” Ji-yoon deadpanned.

“Alright,” Gyeong-Won grinned, “Soo-min, do you have a secret crush on anyone in this room?”

Soo-min turned bright red. “No! I—no! I love everyone here equally!”

Everyone burst into exaggerated gasps.

“Diplomatic,” Jaewon noted.

Kang-hyuk chuckled. “Suspicious.”

Ji-yoon pointed. “You hesitated!”

Soo-min buried her face in her hands.

“Dae-hyun,” Dong-Ju grinned. “What’s your ideal type?” Without a word, Dae-hyun picked up his glass and drank.

Everyone groaned.

“You’re no fun!” Jang-Mi scolded.

“I’m having a great time,” he replied.

They kept going.

“Jaewon, what was your worst attending moment?”

“I once forgot a fellow’s name mid-rounding and called him ‘the tall one.’”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. And he was not tall.”

“Ji-yoon,” Gyeong-Won said, “most embarrassing moment with a patient?”

“I said ‘have a good nap!’ to someone going in for a colonoscopy.”

Dae-hyun actually laughed aloud at that, and Soo-min nearly fell out of her chair.

The evening buzzed with joy. The restaurant was half-empty now, their laughter echoing under the dim yellow lights and old ceiling fans. Steam still wafted from forgotten bowls. There were soy sauce stains on the table and half-eaten bao buns on plates.

It felt like home.

Then Ji-yoon, with that devilish glint in her eyes, leaned forward.

“Okay. Dae-hyun. This one’s important.”

The table stilled. She pointed between herself and Soo-min. “If you had to be stuck on a deserted island with one of us—who would you pick?”

Soo-min’s eyes widened. “Don’t drag me into this!”

“Oh no,” Ji-yoon smirked. “You’re already in.”

Dae-hyun looked at them. He blinked once. Then—stone-faced—he reached for his glass, poured himself a slow, deliberate shot, and drank.

The table exploded.

“NOOOO!” Ji-yoon shouted.

“You absolute coward!” Soo-min howled.

“I can’t believe you!” Jang-Mi laughed, clutching her stomach.

“You diplomatic bastard,” Gyeong-Won declared.

Dae-hyun merely set down his glass and leaned back in his chair like a man who had done the right thing. Only the corner of his mouth twitched—a smile only Ji-yoon and Soo-min would ever recognize.

“Unreal,” Ji-yoon muttered, crossing her arms.

“I’m not mad,” Soo-min said sweetly. “Just... disappointed.”

But both of them were grinning, and Dae-hyun, for once, looked a little too pleased with himself.

“Alright,” Jaewon said, still smiling as he poured tea into the now-empty shot glasses. “That’s enough chaos. Let’s hydrate.”

“Hydrate or die-drate,” Kang-hyuk said dryly.

“Look at you,” Ji-yoon said. “You didn’t even play.”

“I played by not playing,” Kang-hyuk replied, folding his arms.

The table burst into laughter again.

Outside, the street had gone quiet. But inside their favorite Chinese restaurant, the trauma team was alive—full, loud, and messy. The new residents, once wide-eyed and uncertain, now laughed like they belonged here.

Because they did. And tomorrow, they'd go back to the chaos of the hospital, the clipped orders, the pagers and the wounds, and the endless nights. But tonight—just for tonight—Soo-min’s laugh echoed across the table, Ji-yoon threw a napkin at Dae-hyun’s head, and he didn’t even dodge.

---

The night had unraveled in waves of laughter, flushed cheeks, half-spilled soju, and an alarming amount of personal revelations. Ji-yoon had ended up doing a dramatic impression of their chief resident’s walk. Jang-Mi tried to climb onto her chair to propose a toast, but ended up slipping halfway and clinging to Soo-min’s shoulders like a koala. Jaewon—sweet, eloquent, once-fearsome Jaewon—had started giggling at a pun someone made about spleens, and hadn’t stopped since.

And somehow, Dae-hyun had dodged every question with a calm sip of soju and a look so unreadable, even Ji-yoon stopped trying to get under his skin.

They were glowing with tipsy warmth, basking in the residual hum of the game and the cozy glow of the Chinese lanterns above their table, when Kang-hyuk finally flagged down the waitress.

“Check, please,” he said, sliding his card out smoothly, already halfway standing. It was instinct—he always paid. It was tradition, sure, but more than that, he liked taking care of them. Especially tonight. Especially Jaewon, who was now leaning half-asleep against Jang-Mi’s shoulder, smiling vaguely at nothing.

But the waitress blinked, smiling apologetically. “Ah, I’m sorry, sir. It’s already been paid.”

Kang-hyuk paused. “What?”

The others looked up slowly, confusion drifting across the table like mist.

“Paid?” Gyeong-Won echoed. “By who?”

The waitress simply pointed to the quietest person at the table.

Dae-hyun, who was currently finishing the last gyoza with all the serenity of someone who had no idea the world was burning around him.

Everyone turned. Silence fell like a thud.

“You did what?” Ji-yoon slurred, wide-eyed.

Soo-min gasped. “Dae-hyun?!”

“You paid all this?” Kang-hyuk asked, stunned.

Dae-hyun didn’t even look up. “I had points.”

“POINTS?” Jang-Mi shrieked. “What kind of points pay for twenty-six dumplings and three pitchers of soju?!”

He just shrugged. “Corporate card.”

“Whose corporate card?!”

“Mine.”

There was a moment where nobody knew if he was kidding. He didn’t elaborate. He never did.

Soo-min started giggling, covering her mouth like she couldn’t believe it. Jaewon blinked slowly and whispered, “Is this the same universe where he refused to share his charger this morning?”

“He gave me cough drops last week,” Ji-yoon murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. “This man is an enigma.”

Kang-hyuk looked genuinely offended. “You really beat me to the bill?”

Dae-hyun finally looked up, met Kang-hyuk’s eyes, and nodded once—stoic and smug, the tiniest smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Unbelievable,” Kang-hyuk muttered, tossing his napkin on the table, but he was smiling too.

Outside, the night air hit them like a blanket soaked in starlight and summer humidity. The city was still buzzing—neon signs humming, taxi lights blinking, laughter echoing from other corners of the block.

And that was when the chaos resumed.

“WE SHOULD GET DESSERT!” Jang-Mi declared, arms raised like a prophet.

“We just ate four kinds of dessert,” Gyeong-Won said.

“Okay, but—second dessert!”

Soo-min was hugging Ji-yoon’s arm like an oversized scarf. “Ji-yoon, let’s go to the 7-Eleven and get ice cream! And jelly cups! And banana milk!”

Ji-yoon, who was visibly wobbling but still composed, nodded solemnly. “I want a Choco Pie. For science.”

Jaewon was walking slightly sideways now, head tilted toward Kang-hyuk, trying to keep his balance with very little success.

“You’re drunk,” Kang-hyuk said, catching him before he could tilt fully.

“I’m emotional,” Jaewon corrected. “Also, maybe a little drunk.”

“I’ll take him home,” Kang-hyuk said over his shoulder, looping Jaewon’s arm around his. Jaewon didn’t protest—just melted into him with a soft hum.

“Gyeong-Won,” Jang-Mi slurred, tugging his sleeve. “You’re in charge of me.”

“I’ve been in charge of you since the first day I entered the Trauma unit,” he said, resigned.

“What an honor,” she said, attempting a curtsy and nearly falling into a bike rack.

“Alright,” Dong-Ju clapped his hands once. “I’ll help Dae-hyun get the other two home, yeah? We’re headed the same way anyway.”

Dae-hyun nodded. “Works for me.”

“Wait,” Ji-yoon said, turning to him as they started walking. “Why do you know where I live?”

“You said it last week.”

“When?”

“When you were yelling about the pigeons outside your window at lunch.”

“…Oh.”

“Also,” Dae-hyun added dryly, “you sent a meme with your apartment number to the group chat because you couldn’t figure out your delivery address.”

“Tragic,” Ji-yoon muttered.

“Efficient,” Soo-min chirped, grabbing both their hands.

And so the group slowly dispersed like warm smoke curling into the night—some leaning on each other, some quietly guiding, others just laughing under their breath.

Gyeong-Won walked ahead with Jang-Mi clinging to his sleeve and mumbling about mango pudding. Kang-hyuk kept a steady hand on Jaewon’s back as they moved toward the parked cars, Jaewon still murmuring half-thoughts into his shoulder. Dae-hyun walked a step behind Dong-Ju, flanked by the two girls who were still giggling about nothing and everything, hands swinging.

It was imperfect. Chaotic. Ridiculous. But it was the beginning of something real. And for the first time, all of them—rookies and veterans alike—felt like they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

---

POV: Kang-hyuk & Jaewon

The drive home was quiet.

The kind of quiet that hummed—not empty, not awkward, just… soft. Like the inside of a memory.

Jaewon sat in the passenger seat, cheek resting against the window, lips parted in sleep or maybe something like it. The streetlights passed in amber blinks across his face, painting shadows under his eyes, softening the stubborn lines of his jaw. He looked impossibly young like this. Like the first time Kang-hyuk ever saw him in a hospital corridor, arms crossed, heart guarded.

Kang-hyuk drove one-handed, the other hovering near Jaewon’s arm every time the road dipped. And when they finally pulled into his apartment lot, Jaewon stirred with a small sound—half whine, half sigh.

“Hyung…” he mumbled.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Kang-hyuk said, leaning over to unbuckle him gently.

“’Mmm... not that drunk,” Jaewon whispered.

“You called Dae-hyun ‘Mr. Mystery’ and tried to arm wrestle Jang-Mi with a chopstick.”

“...Okay, maybe a little drunk.”

They made it to the elevator with Jaewon leaning against him, drowsy and warm, murmuring nonsense. Once inside the apartment, Kang-hyuk guided him to the couch, then paused when Jaewon tugged his wrist.

“Don’t go,” Jaewon said.

"C'mon, It'll be better to get you in bed..." Kang-hyuk tried to pull him up, but Jaewon refused, he was looking up at him through sleep-heavy lashes. “Stay, just for a bit.”

Kang-hyuk smiled softly, brushing hair from his forehead. “Alright. Just a bit.”

He sat beside him. Jaewon curled into his side like muscle memory. In the quiet hum of the air conditioner, in the hush of the late hour, Jaewon fell asleep against Kang-hyuk’s shoulder, breath warm against his collarbone.

Kang-hyuk looked down at him. And thought, without fear, I’m exactly where I want to be.

POV: Gyeong-Won & Jang-Mi

Gyeong-Won had seen Jang-Mi drunk before, but not like this.

This was... musical. Dramatic. Slightly operatic. She sang the hospital intercom chime while taking off her shoes, then tried to convince her own front door that she was sober enough to be let inside.

“You live here,” he reminded her, unlocking it himself.

She gasped. “You have my key?”

“You gave it to me last month. You were locked out because you left it in the fridge next to a bag of rice.”

“Right,” she nodded solemnly, as if remembering a noble sacrifice.

He helped her settle into the couch and fetched a glass of water, placing it on the table. She blinked up at him, suddenly quiet.

“You always take care of me,” she murmured.

Gyeong-Won smiled as he crouched beside her. “Someone has to make sure you don’t sleep on the stairs.”

She gave a laugh that faded into a hum. “You’re good at this, you know?”

“At what?”

“Staying.”

He looked at her for a long beat. Then stood, straightened his coat.

“And you’re good at making it hard to leave.”

She didn’t respond. Just curled under her blanket, eyelids drooping. He watched until her breathing softened.

Before stepping out, he scribbled a note on the pad near her fridge.

Drink water. Text when you wake.

And, in tiny letters beneath.

You’re not alone.

POV: Dong-Ju, Dae-hyun, Soo-min, Ji-yoon

It took all three of them ten full minutes to get out of the cab.

Soo-min had somehow wrapped herself in Dong-Ju’s coat, giggling nonstop about something only she understood. Ji-yoon kept saying she didn’t need help walking but continued to lean sideways into Dae-hyun’s arm like gravity had given up on her.

“Which floor?” Dong-Ju asked as they reached the lobby of the apartment building.

“Fifth,” Dae-hyun replied.

Soo-min pointed at the elevator button. “MAGIC METAL BOX. ZOOM.”

Ji-yoon rolled her eyes. “Soo-min, you literally live here.”

“I never said I wasn’t amazed.”

The elevator dinged. As they stepped inside, Ji-yoon suddenly frowned.

“Wait. How do you know I live on the fifth floor?”

Dae-hyun pressed the button without looking. “You texted me your address by mistake once.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You also said, ‘Delete this from your memory or I’ll end you.’”

“...Oh.”

Dong-Ju chuckled as the doors slid shut. “You guys are like a sitcom.”

“I’m the main character,” Soo-min said.

They dropped Soo-min off first. Dae-hyun made sure she got the key into the lock before nodding and turning away. “Night.”

“Thank you, Dae-hyun oppa~” she cooed, blowing a kiss at both of them.

Ji-yoon didn’t even react. She was too busy trying to remember her own apartment number.

Dae-hyun walked her to her door without a word. She blinked up at him when they arrived.

“You’re really quiet,” she said.

“I get quieter when I care,” he replied.

She blinked again. Then nodded slowly. “That’s... kinda nice.” And she stepped inside with a small smile.

Dong-Ju looked over at Dae-hyun as they walked back down together.

“You’re a good guy,” he said.

Dae-hyun shrugged. “I’m just trying to keep them from walking into traffic.”

Dong-Ju laughed. “Still. You’ve got a good heart.”

They parted at the front entrance. The night had grown still, the chaos tucked away, the city sighing into sleep.

---

In their own corners of Seoul, the trauma team rested. Some with tangled limbs and silent smiles. Some with soft lights still on, notes left on kitchen counters. Some with quiet thoughts they didn’t say aloud, but felt deeply. Some alone—but not lonely. Never lonely, not anymore.

They didn’t know it yet, but nights like this would be stitched into them. Bright threads in the memory. The kind of night that reminds you: you belong. That even in a storm of lives and call shifts and fractured hearts—You have a home in each other.

And in a world that rarely slowed down, Tonight, they did. Together.

Chapter Text

The trauma wing was unusually quiet for a weekday morning. The kind of hush that made nurses whisper and residents tread softly. Not because of a code. Not because of grief.

Because four very hungover doctors were sprawled across the break room like victims of a small, specific disaster.

Soo-min had her face pressed against the cold table, her cheek smushed into a pile of napkins like they were the last sanctuary of her dignity. Ji-yoon was slumped in the corner armchair, wrapped in a thin blanket someone had draped over her sometime during the night, sunglasses shielding her from the offensive overhead lights. Jang-Mi was flat on her back on the couch, arm dangling off the edge like she’d just fallen out of a helicopter. And Jaewon—Jaewon, esteemed trauma attending, top of his class, terror of interns—was sitting in a swivel chair, slowly spinning in half-circles with a piece of toast hanging limply from his mouth and a cold pack strapped to the top of his head with surgical tape.

“They’re alive,” Dong-Ju said solemnly, sipping his coffee from the corner of the room.

“Barely,” Gyeong-Won muttered, watching Soo-min groan and shove the napkins closer to her face like they might absorb the pain in her skull.

Kang-hyuk was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, entirely too smug for someone who’d spent last night wrestling his boyfriend into his coat while the others sang girl group songs on the sidewalk at midnight.

Across from him, Dae-hyun stood silently, sipping his black coffee like it was a military-grade secret. Not a strand of hair out of place. Not a wrinkle on his shirt. The only sign of wariness was the faint twitch under his eye when Ji-yoon let out a muffled whimper and clutched her stomach.

“I regret everything,” she croaked from under her sunglasses.

“You regret nothing,” Dong-Ju shot back. “You called Professor Baek ‘appa’ at least twice last night.”

“I did what—”

“She did,” Kang-hyuk confirmed, sipping his tea like it was victory. “Right after she challenged a pedestrian to a push-up contest.”

“Oh god.”

“And then she almost won,” Soo-min muttered into the table. “Would’ve been so epic.”

“You,” Jaewon rasped, pointing a wobbly finger at Dae-hyun. “You betrayed me. You didn’t even try to answer a single question last night.”

Dae-hyun blinked. “I played by the rules.”

“You drank every time.”

“I’m efficient.”

“He paid for the whole dinner,” Kang-hyuk added, nudging his head toward him. “Snuck the check right from under my nose.”

“You what?” Ji-yoon struggled to sit upright, her hair pointing in three directions like a disturbed cactus. “I thought that waitress was hallucinating when she pointed at you.”

“I thought I was hallucinating,” Jaewon added, lifting the ice pack and wincing.

Dae-hyun shrugged, completely unbothered. “Felt like the right thing.”

“You’re a mystery,” Jang-Mi said from the couch, her voice raspy. “A mysterious man of honor and vengeance.”

“I just used my card.”

“No. Let me have this.”

In the corner, Dong-Ju couldn’t help it. He laughed—an actual, loud, surprised laugh—and leaned into Gyeong-Won’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Alright, alright,” Gyeong-Won clapped his hands once. “We need to triage the chaos. Who’s dying the worst?”

“Soo-min’s still face-down.”

“Ji-yoon’s probably going to throw up again.”

“I’m fine,” Ji-yoon hissed. “I just need, like, five electrolytes and for someone to sedate the sun.”

Kang-hyuk bent over and gently tapped Jaewon’s shoulder. “How’re we feeling, Doctor?”

“I hate everyone. And I want hash browns.”

“Noted.”

He straightened and turned to Dae-hyun, who was already slipping two packets of powdered hydration salts into a water bottle. Without a word, he passed them to Ji-yoon and Soo-min.

Soo-min blinked blearily at him. “...you’re like a magical hangover fairy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But you are.”

“Still no.”

Meanwhile, Jang-Mi had decided the couch was a ship and she was the captain, sitting upright, suddenly and dramatically pointing forward. “Let’s sail… to brunch.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Gyeong-Won said, crouching down. “You smell like soju and betrayal.”

Dong-Ju re-entered the room with a tote bag full of snacks—bananas, crackers,and  packets of soup. “I figured this might help,” he said sheepishly. “Also, the nurse on night shift told me you all were moaning like zombies in here.”

“I am a zombie,” Soo-min mumbled.

“You look like one,” Jaewon said.

“You look like a toasted shrimp.”

“I am a toasted shrimp.”

Everyone laughed—even Ji-yoon, though it turned into a groan halfway through.

They fell into a rhythm then, a chaotic, oddly heartwarming one. Kang-hyuk sliced up fruit while Jaewon sat wrapped in someone else’s hoodie like a dazed gremlin. Gyeong-Won combed Jang-Mi’s hair with his fingers so it wouldn’t tangle. Dong-Ju spoon-fed Ji-yoon small bites of banana like she was a disgruntled child. And Dae-hyun moved around quietly, replenishing cold packs, adjusting pillows, cleaning up the disaster zone they called a break room.

At some point, Soo-min finally lifted her head and blinked.

“...did we all just survive the trauma welcome dinner?”

“Yes,” Kang-hyuk said.

“Barely,” Jaewon added.

“Would do again,” Jang-Mi mumbled.

“Maybe in a year,” Ji-yoon said. “Or two.”

Soo-min smiled, a sleepy, grateful thing.

“Best team ever,” she whispered.

And for once, no one joked. No one denied it.

Because even with pounding heads, sore throats, and crushed dignity, the feeling in the room was real: warm, ridiculous, chaotic family. Even if half of them still smelled like last night’s sesame oil.

---

The morning began in a hush of familiarity—an orchestra of beeping monitors, intercom pages, and the click-clack of hurried footsteps on tile floors. The trauma wing pulsed like a living thing, its rhythm steady in the lull between emergencies.

Jaewon stood at the main workstation, holding a large stainless-steel thermos in one hand and a tablet in the other, his eyebrows knit in concentration as he scrolled through patient updates. His lab coat was half-buttoned, as usual, stethoscope wrapped haphazardly around his neck like an afterthought. Beside him, Ji-yoon was half-asleep over her own charting, chin resting on her palm, her other hand clutching a pen that hadn’t moved in several minutes.

“Resident Park Ji-yoon,” Jaewon said without looking, “finish that consult summary before I confiscate your white coat.”

Ji-yoon groaned softly. “Dr. Yang, we just survived The Hangover: Seoul Edition. Mercy.”

“You survived because I gave you IV fluids before morning rounds,” he replied smoothly, sipping his coffee. “Now suffer like an intern.”

Just a few feet away, Soo-min was practically glowing—freshly showered, hair tied up in a neat ponytail, and sipping an iced americano as if the events of the previous night had never occurred. She leaned over the station, humming a tune from last night’s noraebang finale while entering vitals for the ortho consult.

“How is she alive?” Ji-yoon whispered.

“She’s powered by sunshine and spite,” Dae-hyun replied, approaching from behind with a tray of onigiri and energy drinks. He plopped one down beside each of them without comment.

Jaewon raised an eyebrow. “Where do you keep getting these?”

“Trade secret,” Dae-hyun said, already walking away.

Before Jaewon could reply, a quiet ding echoed from his tablet. A message from admin:

MEETING—Conference Rm B. Professor Baek's attendance is required immediately.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.

Kang-hyuk appeared from around the corner a few moments later, looking freshly showered, in crisp scrubs and a dark cardigan slung over his shoulders. He waved his ID at the nurses, greeted Nurse Agnes with a low “Morning,” and then approached the desk.

“Meeting?” he asked, noting Jaewon’s grimace.

“Conference Room B. Admin probably wants a debrief on last week’s triage changes.”

Kang-hyuk sighed. “Tell our ducklings to behave.”

“Tell them yourself, they’re right here,” Jaewon replied.

Kang-hyuk gave the residents a pointed look. Ji-yoon saluted with her pen. Soo-min beamed. Dae-hyun nodded as he chewed.

“You’re doomed,” Jaewon told him flatly.

Kang-hyuk smirked and headed toward the elevators.

Down the hall, Jang-Mi was already in a tug-of-war with patient charts.

“Nurse Agnes, why are these consult notes written like poetry?” she called.

Agnes, her reading glasses perched on her head, squinted at a scribbled page. “Because Dr. Lee thinks ‘bilious emesis’ sounds better in verse.”

“Someone get that man a journal and take away his pen.”

They laughed as another wave of patients came through the ER queue—minor fractures, a shoulder dislocation, two surgical follow-ups. It was the kind of chaos that didn’t scare anyone anymore, not here, not in this place that had survived earthquakes, fires, and system crashes.

Ji-yoon, still mildly hungover but functional, assisted with two suture removals. Soo-min ran labs down to pathology, practically skipping. Dae-hyun was already elbow-deep in a wound dressing before Jaewon even realized he’d disappeared again.

The alarm came just after noon.

The hospital was wrapped in the stillness of routine. Monitors blinked steadily. Telephones buzzed in soft hums. Footsteps padded across linoleum floors like the steady beat of a clock. At the nurse station, Jang-Mi was half-listening to Nurse Agnes rant about faulty thermometers, her eyes mid-roll, when the intercom split the moment in half.

Incoming mass trauma. ETA five minutes. Civilian bus rollover. Multiple casualties. Triage protocol C activated.

There was a single, suspended breath — the kind the whole building seemed to take together.

Then, motion. Rapid. Absolute.

Files hit counters. Chairs scraped back. Voices shifted from casual to clipped. Nurse Agnes stood immediately, her expression flattening into grim focus. Interns scattered like startled birds, and trauma pagers erupted in chaotic synchrony. The residents’ lounge door swung open.

Jaewon stepped out with his tablet still in hand. His eyes scanned the corridor, already calculating triage spread. Behind him, Ji-yoon, Soo-min, and Dae-hyun stood in confusion—until Jaewon’s tone shifted.

“Everyone, vest up. Now.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation. He tossed Dae-hyun a trauma vest, gestured to Soo-min and Ji-yoon.

“Split zones. You’ll get your assignments on the fly.”

“Shit,” Ji-yoon muttered, tugging her hair into a ponytail so quickly the tie snapped. She grabbed another from her wrist, hands steady.

Soo-min’s mouth was set in a firm line, her eyes already scanning the hallway like she could see the incoming stretchers.

Dae-hyun said nothing. But he moved with instinct. Quick, sharp. Gloves. Mask. Eye shield. His fingers were already pulling the vest down over his scrubs by the time Kang-hyuk appeared from the boardroom.

“Multiple red tags,” Kang-hyuk said, reading from the live feed that scrolled on a tablet in Jaewon’s hand. “Four critical. Eight serious. Green tags trickling in behind. One CPR in progress.”

The room’s pulse shifted. There was no panic. Only an unspoken agreement: move.

“Jaewon,” Kang-hyuk said, flipping through updates. “You and Soo-min—OR-1, abdominal bleeder. Dong-Ju’s getting OR-2 with Ji-yoon—thoracic cavity collapse. I’ll take trauma bay. Dae-hyun’s with me.”

Jaewon nodded once, already turning. Soo-min followed close, her face unreadable.

“This isn’t a drill,” Jaewon added under his breath to the trio of residents as they jogged toward the ER. “Keep your heads. Work the problem.”

The sharp rhythm of their footsteps down the corridor sounded like a countdown.

Operating Room 1 - Jaewon and Soo-min

The OR was already lit, buzzing, and the patient was prepped. A young woman in her twenties—limbs twisted, skin pallid, pulse barely clinging to the monitor. The surgical nurse rattled off vitals too quickly, voice tight.

“BP crashing. FAST shows fluid. Bleeder somewhere midline. Possible liver.”

Jaewon yanked on his gown and gloves, barely looking as he nodded. Soo-min scrubbed in just as fast, heart hammering against her ribs.

“Retractor,” Jaewon snapped. “Suction—Soo-min, you’re on it. Let’s go.”

Blood welled into the cavity the moment they cut. Jaewon didn’t flinch. Neither did Soo-min.

“Clamp—there! Bleeder at the hepatic vein—” Soo-min called, already moving to it.

“Good eye,” Jaewon muttered.

Soo-min’s hands moved almost faster than she could think. She anticipated Jaewon’s commands before they left his mouth. Gauze. Clamp. Cut. Tie.

She forgot she was a first-year. In this moment, she was a surgeon.

Fifteen minutes later, pulse pressure climbed. The monitor’s beeping grew steady. “Vitals stable,” the nurse said.

Jaewon glanced at Soo-min through the mask, eyes narrowed but pleased. “Not bad, rookie.”

Soo-min’s eyes crinkled. Her voice was soft as she exhaled. “Thanks.”

Operating Room 2 - Dong-Ju and Ji-yoon

It smelled like blood and cauterization in the OR when Ji-yoon stepped in. Her patient was a middle-aged man, chest crushed inward, air escaping with every shallow breath. A thoracic cavity filled with blood. The monitors screamed in panic.

“Scalpel,” Ji-yoon said, hand already up.

Dong-Ju, walking in behind her, paused. “You starting without me?”

“We need access. Fast.”

He blinked once, then handed her the blade. “Don’t let me slow you down.”

They moved in tandem—chest tube inserted, fluids suctioned, and blood flooding into the catch basin.

“Bleeding from intercostals. Clamp here,” Dong-Ju said.

“Got it,” Ji-yoon murmured, her hands moving like she’d done this dozens of times.

“You’re quick,” Dong-Ju noted. “No hesitation.”

“No time for it,” Ji-yoon replied, tone cool. “Someone has to stay calm.”

Dong-Ju grinned under his mask. “You know, you're fun at parties.”

“Only if there's blood and surgical tape.”

They sutured in tandem, controlled and efficient. By the time they closed, the patient’s blood pressure had returned to borderline stable.

Dong-Ju offered her a fist bump. Ji-yoon blinked, then tapped his glove with hers.

Trauma Bay - Kang-hyuk and Dae-hyun

The trauma bay lights burned white overhead, stark and sterile. The air smelled of metal, iodine, and adrenaline. Alarms bleated in rhythm, monitors flashing in frantic pulses as yet another gurney crashed through the swinging doors.

A man in his forties—civilian clothes soaked in soot and blood—lay motionless on the stretcher, intubated and unresponsive. Burn trauma. Blunt force injury. Chest not rising. Gurney wheels screeched to a halt beside the trauma table as the paramedic shouted out vitals.

“Code red. CPR en route. Blunt thoracic trauma, probable cardiac tamponade. No spontaneous rhythm.”

Kang-hyuk’s jaw tightened. “Dae-hyun. You’re with me,” he ordered.

Dae-hyun was already gloving up, eyes sharp and steady as ever, hair falling slightly over his brow. He didn’t speak—just nodded once, calm as ice but already moving, already counting compressions in his head, already peeling back the sheet.

“On my count—one, two, three—”

Together, they lifted the man onto the trauma bed. The team scrambled around them, Agnes drawing up epinephrine, Jang-Mi on defibrillator duty, two surgical nurses prepping the chest tray.

The monitor flatlined. Again.

Dae-hyun didn’t flinch. He mounted the bed and began compressions, arms locked, movements firm and practiced. Kang-hyuk barked orders across the room, but his gaze kept flicking back to the young resident — to his clenched jaw, his tightened shoulders, the way he pressed rhythm into the patient’s sternum like he could will the man back from the dead.

“Still no pulse,” Agnes said.

“Charge to two hundred.”

“Charging—clear!”

The jolt of electricity cracked through the body. The man’s torso arched. Then—nothing.

Still no rhythm.

Another round. More compressions. Sweat gathered at Dae-hyun’s temples. Blood pooled across the sheets. The world narrowed to the sound of his breath and the feel of bones under his palms.

“Dae-hyun,” Kang-hyuk said softly. “Switch out.”

“I’ve got it,” Dae-hyun snapped, voice low and urgent. “I’ve got him.”

Kang-hyuk stilled. The room, for a breath, felt like it wasn’t spinning anymore.

He watched the way Dae-hyun’s knuckles whitened. The tremor in his elbows, the crease between his brows. The first flicker of something like desperation behind his otherwise unreadable face.

The patient’s skin had gone grey-blue. Pupils fixed. Agonal breaths ceased.

“Still no rhythm,” Agnes whispered, gently now. “It’s been twelve minutes.”

Dae-hyun didn’t stop. His mouth pressed into a grim line, sweat dripping off his chin, but his hands never paused. He kept pressing, over and over, as though somewhere inside the shattered ribcage, there might still be something left to hold onto.

“Come on,” he murmured. Not to Kang-hyuk. Not to the nurses. To the man. “Come on. Come back. Just once—”

“Dae-hyun,” Kang-hyuk said again, more firmly now. He stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder.

And Dae-hyun recoiled like it burned.

“No. Not yet.” It wasn’t anger in his voice. It was something rawer. More fragile. Something that made Kang-hyuk’s chest ache. But he couldn’t let it go on.

“Dae-hyun,” he said, quieter this time. He reached out, not as a professor now, not as a surgeon, but simply as someone who’d been there—who knew the helplessness of trying to push back death with bare hands.

“It’s time.”

Dae-hyun froze. Hands hovered over the still body. Blood soaked the front of his scrubs. His breath hitched—once, barely noticeable—and then he stepped back. Kang-hyuk gently guided him off the bed. He turned to the team.

“Time of death: 10:46 a.m.”

The monitor was silenced. The wires were removed. A white sheet was drawn over the man’s face.

The chaos didn’t stop. Outside, more patients waited. The sound of another siren began to rise in the distance.

Dae-hyun stood there, motionless.

His gloves were stained red. His chest rose and fell, but his face didn’t move. Not an inch. No tears. No trembling lip. Nothing but the stone-faced quiet of someone swallowing an ocean whole and pretending it was only a sip.

Kang-hyuk glanced at him. Wanted to say something—You did your best. It wasn’t your fault. You’re not alone—but none of those words could stitch together what Dae-hyun had just lost.

So he didn’t speak. He just placed a hand gently on Dae-hyun’s back—solid and steady—and stood beside him for a moment longer.

Then, as the next gurney rushed in, he called out again.

“Dae-hyun, are you—”

"I'm fine." And just like that, Dae-hyun, silent as ever, just walked away from Kang-hyuk's sight and continued to maneuver like nothing happened. Even with death clinging to his gloves. Even with grief pounding at the door of his chest. He buried it. He kept going.

---

The trauma unit had finally quieted.

The last of the gurneys had been pushed out of the trauma bay, the floors mopped clean of blood, the lights dimmed just slightly to ease the strain on tired eyes. There were no more code calls over the intercom. No more screaming. No more sprinting across hallways with surgical trays or pulling crash carts into tight corners. For the first time in hours—maybe all day—the break room was silent, save for the hum of the vending machine and the low whirl of the ceiling fan.

Everyone was there now. Or at least, the ones who could still stand.

Kang-hyuk stood near the counter, arms crossed, a half-empty cup of coffee cradled in his hand, his eyes tracking the room like he always did—watching without intruding. Gyeong-won leaned back in the far corner seat, tie loose, scrub cap tossed aside, rubbing his temples like a man negotiating with an oncoming migraine. Jang-Mi had already kicked off her shoes, sitting cross-legged on the bench, quietly flipping through a patient chart even though the pages blurred in her vision. Jaewon looked like he hadn’t sat down in days. He was slouched at the far end of the table, arm slung over the back of the chair, eyelids heavy, but still murmuring softly with Soo-min beside him.

Soo-min’s voice was quiet, comforting. She had a knack for softness, like her words wrapped themselves around your pulse and steadied it.

Ji-yoon had just returned from a quick shower, hair still damp, a faint line from her scrub cap pressing into her forehead. She was uncharacteristically quiet. Her eyes were on Dae-hyun.

Everyone were, in subtle ways.

He sat at the edge of the couch, spine too straight, not leaning back, not even relaxing. His jaw was tight, arms resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped but unmoving. There was a coldness to his stillness, a tension coiled beneath his skin that made it feel as if anyone touched him, he’d shatter like glass.

No one said anything for a while. But the quiet wasn’t restful—it was uneasy. A silence filled with the weight of what they’d just endured.

Sixteen patients.

Seven in surgery.

Four lost.

And one—one that had been in his hands.

Ji-yoon’s voice cut into the quiet first, gentle but blunt as ever. “You okay?”

She didn’t name him. She didn’t have to.

Dae-hyun didn’t move. He just blinked once, then reached for a water bottle on the table. His fingers wrapped around it too tightly; the plastic crinkled. “I’m fine.”

Soo-min glanced between the two of them. “You sure? You haven’t really—”

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, too quickly this time. Not harsh, just… closed. Like a door quietly locked from the other side.

The silence stretched again.

Kang-hyuk’s gaze lingered longer now. He’d seen that look before—the flatness behind Dae-hyun’s eyes, the way he hadn’t even taken off his blood-stained gown until someone told him to. He’d seen that expression on too many young doctors, too many times.

It was the look of someone holding it all in so tightly, they’d forgotten how to breathe.

“I’m going to check on the ICU transfers,” Dae-hyun said, standing abruptly. His voice was level, but his knuckles were pale as he gripped the door handle.

“Dae-hyun—” Jaewon began, but the door was already swinging shut behind him.

Gone.

Again.

Ji-yoon exhaled slowly, crossing her arms. “That’s the third time today.”

Soo-min’s brows furrowed. “He’s… been like this since the trauma bay. I saw him after they called time on that patient.”

Jaewon nodded slowly. “He took the lead. Kept trying even when we knew there was no chance. Kang-hyuk had to call it.”

They all looked to Kang-hyuk then.

He nodded once, quietly. “He didn’t want to stop.”

No one did, sometimes. But that wasn’t the point. There was a moment where every trauma doctor had to choose between hope and mercy. Between doing everything… and knowing when it was already too late.

But Dae-hyun hadn’t reached that moment. He’d stayed, hands pressing down harder, voice steady as he called for another dose of epinephrine, another round of compressions. As if sheer willpower could bring the man back.

And Kang-hyuk had to place a hand on his shoulder and pull him back. Had to feel the resistance in that young, shaking body. Had to see the panic that never reached Dae-hyun’s face—but settled deep in his eyes.

“Did he say anything after?” Soo-min asked, barely above a whisper.

Kang-hyuk shook his head. “No. Just nodded. And started helping with the next patient.”

There was a silence in the room again—but this time, it was heavier. Not chaotic. Not exhausting. But the kind that clung to your skin like a fog. The kind you didn’t know how to name.

Ji-yoon rubbed her temple. “We need to talk to him.”

“Not yet,” Jaewon murmured. “Let him come back to us first.”

Soo-min glanced at the door. Her expression softened, but her worry didn’t. “He always takes care of us. Always notices when we’re not okay. But now…”

“Now he’s walking on eggshells around us,” Ji-yoon finished for her. “He thinks if he slows down, he’ll break.”

Kang-hyuk’s voice was calm, but firm. “Then we wait. And when he does slow down—we’ll be there.”

The vending machine hummed louder for a second. Outside the break room, nurses rushed past. A gurney wheeled by. Somewhere, an intercom buzzed to life.

But inside the break room, the storm had passed. And what remained was the soft aftershock of grief no one had words for.

A quiet knowing passed between them. Dae-hyun was unraveling. And this time… he wouldn’t say it out loud. But they would be ready to listen.

Chapter Text

It had been a week. A week since the sirens had stilled, and the blood-soaked gauze was tossed away. A week since the trauma bay stopped breathing in chaos and exhaling grief.
A week since Dae-hyun lost his first patient.

The hospital had, on the surface, returned to normal—or the closest thing to normal that a trauma unit could manage. Rounds were brisk and full of clipped sentences. The elevators groaned with overworked legs. Laughter flickered here and there like fluorescent lights—bright, but a little broken.

The routine had returned. But something was off.

It moved through the halls like a shadow without a body. Hung in the air of the break room like steam that never cleared. It brushed past shoulders and ghosted through the corners of conversations. And it lived, quietly, unspoken, in the hollow of Dae-hyun’s chest—something dark and unspilled, heavy like rainclouds that refused to break.

He was the same.

On paper.

Responded to pages within three rings. Double-gloved without needing to be told. Charted vitals down to the decimal. Attentive. Precise. Quietly dependable.
But he was no longer present.

He moved like someone underwater—doing everything he was supposed to, but slightly slower, slightly dimmer. The sharpness in his eyes had dulled into something gray and far away. He stopped lingering at the nurse station. Stopped showing up early to prep scans or linger back to review labs with Ji-yoon.

And he stopped joking.

Dae-hyun’s jokes were never loud to begin with. They were dry little things, slipped between syllables and rarely followed by a smile—but they were his way of letting people in. His quiet fingerprints of care. And now they were gone.

It hadn’t taken long for Soo-min and Ji-yoon to notice.

They noticed how he avoided eye contact too quickly. How he walked slightly ahead, like putting space between them would hold something in place. How he stared out windows too long, as if looking for something to anchor himself with. And then there was the silence.

He used to be quiet. Now he was silent. Like he was walking around inside a glass jar, no one else could hear.

The three of them were on a break after a long morning shift—the kind that drained you from the base of your spine. They had managed to claim the second-floor break room, the one with crooked blinds and an old ceiling fan that hummed just loud enough to cover a sigh.

Ji-yoon sat curled into one corner of the couch, flipping through patient charts, but not really reading. Her hair was still tied up from the last procedure, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She kept glancing over the top of the pages—not at Soo-min, not at the clock, but at Dae-hyun.

Soo-min stood by the counter, both hands wrapped around a chipped yellow coffee mug. She hadn’t taken a sip in over ten minutes. The coffee had gone cold, but her fingers stayed pressed to it like a heat she was trying to hold onto.

Dae-hyun sat across the room, in one of the old metal chairs by the window, elbows on knees, head tilted low. He wasn’t asleep. Wasn’t looking at anything.

Just… still. Too still.

The morning light filtered through the blinds in pale gold stripes, stretching across his shoulder like a silent spotlight. Dust drifted lazily in the air between them. No one spoke for a long time.

Soo-min was the first to break. Her voice was soft, careful. “Hey… You sure you’re okay?”

Dae-hyun didn’t lift his head. There was the faintest shift in his throat—like he had to remember how to swallow. A beat. Another.

Then, quietly, “Yeah.”

Just that.

No elaboration. No curve in his tone. Not even a glance. It landed with the dead weight of a dropped coin. Heavy and hollow.

Ji-yoon didn’t say anything. But she stopped pretending to read. She placed her chart gently on the table, sat forward, and simply watched him. Not judging. Not prying. Just… there.

She and Soo-min shared a look. One that said everything without needing to speak.

They could feel it.

He wasn’t okay.

He was unraveling quietly, and the threads were too fine to catch.

And still, Dae-hyun didn’t move.

He sat there for another few seconds, as if debating something—some invisible war behind his tired eyes—and then stood up. His chair scraped softly against the tile.

“I’ve got to check on bed twenty-three,” he said.

No one stopped him.

Because what could they say?

And like smoke before you can grab it, he was gone. The door swung closed behind him, gentle as a sigh.

Soo-min set her cup down. Her fingers lingered on the rim.

“He’s not okay,” she said, more to the silence than to Ji-yoon.

Ji-yoon only nodded. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was loaded. Like the room had absorbed Dae-hyun’s weight and was still carrying it. Like his presence had left a footprint no one wanted to step into.

Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped. A cart rolled past. Life continued. But something had cracked. And both of them felt it. The grief had not passed. It had simply gone quiet. Waiting. Trembling. Ready to surface. And it would—soon.

---

It had been exactly eight days.

Eight days since the mass trauma incident. Eight days since the trauma bay lights had burned too bright, too long. Eight days since a man bled out in front of Dae-hyun's hands while the whole world watched and then looked away.

And somehow… everything had returned to normal.

Rounds resumed. Patients came and went. The residents filed in and out of the OR like cogs in a clean, sharp machine. Even the break room smelled like coffee again instead of adrenaline and sweat.

To everyone else, things had calmed.

But Dae-hyun hadn’t.

He moved like nothing had changed. He wrote his notes, tied his gowns, even cracked the occasional dry comment when Ji-yoon teased Soo-min about her handwriting. But something was different. Off. Hollow.

Soo-min noticed it first, of course—the way his smile stopped at his mouth. The way he sat further away from them at lunch, choosing corners with shadows. Ji-yoon noticed it, too. How he stared a little too long at the trauma bay doors whenever they swung open. How he didn’t correct her anymore when she misread vitals out loud—not because she was right, but because he wasn’t even listening.

They both saw it.

But he was slippery. Careful. Always a step ahead when they tried to catch him alone. Until now.

Dong-Ju had been looking for saline flushes. That was all. He wasn’t expecting anything more than a restock. But when he pushed open the supply closet door on the third floor, he stopped.

The first thing he saw was the light—harsh, blinking like a faulty heartbeat. Then the silence, thick and unnatural. Then the figure.

Dae-hyun.

He was standing with both palms flat against the metal shelf, head bowed low. His back was shaking, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking closely, but Dong-Ju wasn’t an idiot. He knew what this was.

“Dae-hyun,” he said softly.

No response. Just the sound of someone trying very hard not to fall apart.

Dong-Ju stepped in carefully and closed the door behind him, sealing them into that narrow, breathless space. “Hey,” he said again. “It’s me.”

Dae-hyun wiped his eyes quickly—angrily, as if the tears were a betrayal.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine, hyung.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Dong-Ju’s heart clenched. There was nothing in this world more brutal than a strong person unraveling quietly.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Dae-hyun turned away. “I’m not— I don’t—” He broke off. Then laughed bitterly. “It’s stupid. I didn’t even know his name.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I lost him.” The words came out in a rush. “He coded and I—I did everything. Chest compressions, meds, everything. But he still died. He still died, and I was the one holding the bag.”

Dong-Ju stayed quiet.

Dae-hyun’s hands were trembling again. “I keep hearing the flatline. I close my eyes and I’m back there. He was still warm.”

“You’re allowed to grieve him,” Dong-Ju said. “Even if you didn’t know his name. Even if you did everything right.”

“I wasn’t supposed to lose him.” His voice shrank. “Not on my watch.”

Dong-Ju exhaled slowly, stepped forward, and placed a hand on his shoulder—firm, steady, quiet like an anchor.

“You’re human, Dae-hyun,” he murmured. “Even the best of us can’t outrun loss. We just… learn how to carry it.”

Dae-hyun looked up, and for a moment, all the strength he wore like armor slipped. His eyes were glassy, red, wet with something deeper than sadness.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said.

“Dae-hyun—”

“Please. Not Soo-min. Not Ji-yoon. Not the team. Not even Professor Baek.”

Dong-Ju hesitated. Then nodded slowly. “Okay. Just… promise me you won’t keep disappearing.”

Dae-hyun didn’t answer. But the silence was not a no.

When they finally stepped out of the supply closet, the hallway lights were too bright.

And fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of timing.

Kang-hyuk and Jaewon turned the corner just then, cafeteria trays in hand—two steaming bowls of jjajangmyeon and a plate of rolled omelets between them. Jaewon looked up first, blinking in mild surprise.

“Dae-hyun?” he asked, smiling gently. “We were wondering where you went. You didn’t come to lunch?”

Dae-hyun froze.

His throat clenched. The scent of warm food hit him like a punch—not because he was hungry, but because it reminded him of how far he’d drifted from things that once felt normal.

“I’m not hungry,” he said quietly.

Then he turned and walked the other way.

Jaewon looked after him, confused. “Was it something I—?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer. He was staring at Dong-Ju not—not with anger, but with the kind of deep, perceptive calm that only came from decades of reading pain on other people’s faces.

“What happened?” Kang-hyuk asked simply.

Dong-Ju hesitated.

“I can’t say.”

Jaewon blinked. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

Dong-Ju looked down, then met Kang-hyuk’s eyes. “He asked me not to. And I’m going to respect that.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t press. He just nodded once, slowly—the same nod he gave in the OR when a resident made the right call under pressure. Then he turned to look down the corridor where Dae-hyun had disappeared.

“Keep an eye on him,” he said. “And if he can’t come to us yet, then we’ll wait until he can.”

Jaewon nodded, quieter now. The warmth in his eyes was still there—a little dimmer, but never gone.

Somewhere, down the hall, Dae-hyun disappeared into a shadow again. But this time… not unnoticed.

And even if he didn’t know it yet, the team—his team—would be waiting. Not to fix him. Just to hold space for him when he finally broke.

---

The rooftop was quiet.

That kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty—just… honest. The kind that pressed its silence into your ribs and told you to breathe. Told you it was okay to stop pretending.

Jang-Mi had brought him up there with nothing more than a curt nod and a thermos of warm barley tea. The sky was soft with cloudlight, overcast but not dark, the wind brushing through their coats like a gentle usher.

She didn’t say much at first. Just unscrewed the cap, poured a little into the lid, and offered it to him.

Dae-hyun took it wordlessly.

Below them, Seoul sprawled wide—buses threading the veins of the city, neon signs starting to flicker alive, people moving through lives too big and too fast. But up here, it all looked… far away. Manageable. Like nothing could reach them.

Jang-Mi leaned against the railing and let out a breath. “This is where I bring people,” she said lightly, “when they’re about to snap.”

Dae-hyun said nothing. He didn’t even blink.

“I’ve dragged Ji-yoon up here after her fifth code blue in a row. Held Soo-min’s hair while she cried over failing an intubation. Watched Jaewon nearly cry over a misdiagnosis—don’t tell him I told you that.”

She smiled faintly. “Even Professor Baek's been up here. Years ago. After his first failed surgery. He threw his stethoscope across the roof and didn’t speak for twenty minutes.”

Dae-hyun’s grip on the thermos tightened.

Jang-Mi glanced at him. “You don’t have to talk. Not today. But if you keep bottling it up like this, Dae-hyun… It’s gonna find its way out. And it won’t be pretty.”

Still, he said nothing. Just stared out over the railing like the wind might answer for him.

“I know you think being quiet makes you stronger,” she said more gently, “but grief doesn’t work that way. It’s not something you can out-stubborn.”

She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a wrapped red ginseng candy, and pressed it into his palm like a memory. “Just in case you decide to come back down with something to say.”

Then she stepped back.

And right as she was about to leave through the stairwell door, she paused.

Someone was standing there.

Kang-hyuk.

His coat still hung loosely off his shoulders, a half-finished coffee cup in one hand, the other in his pocket. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Jang-Mi took one look at him, smiled knowingly, and whispered, “Don’t scare him off.”

Then she nodded once and walked past him.

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

Kang-hyuk waited a moment, letting the quiet settle again before he stepped forward—footsteps deliberate, calm. He didn’t speak. Didn’t clear his throat. Just walked to the ledge and stood beside Dae-hyun.

And Dae-hyun… didn’t look. Didn’t flinch. He knew it was him. He had always known.

The silence between them was weighty. But not tense. Not anymore.

Kang-hyuk leaned on his elbows, eyes tracing the horizon like it might reveal the right words.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said finally. His voice was low, quiet, not like the professor barking orders in the trauma bay. “But you do need to stop walking like you're on eggshells around people who care.”

Dae-hyun’s jaw clenched.

“I know what it looks like when someone breaks,” Kang-hyuk said. “I’ve seen enough to know the signs. You didn’t break that day, Dae-hyun. You didn’t fail.”

His throat bobbed with something unspoken.

“That call… it wasn’t yours to carry alone.”

For a moment, Dae-hyun didn’t breathe. Then he exhaled—sharp, quiet, like a hole being poked in a dam.

“I was eight,” he said suddenly. His voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used for days. “When my parents died. I watched it happen. In the ER. Both of them. At the same time.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t move.

“They coded. And I just stood there. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just… watched. And the doctor called time like it meant nothing.”

His hands trembled slightly at his sides. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” A long, aching pause. “And when I lost that patient last week… I wasn’t just losing a stranger,” Dae-hyun whispered. “I was eight again. Watching it all. Except this time… I was the one calling time.”

The confession hung between them like a bruise. Raw. Real.

Kang-hyuk slowly set down his coffee cup. “You were a child,” he said. “And now you’re a doctor. That’s not a weakness. That’s the cruel way life loops.”

Dae-hyun looked down at his hands like he didn’t recognize them.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

“Too late,” Kang-hyuk murmured.

And that made Dae-hyun huff something close to a bitter laugh.

Kang-hyuk turned to him fully then. “You know, the first patient I lost? I cried in the stairwell. Right outside the OR. Jaewon was the one who found me. I told him not to say anything either.”

Dae-hyun glanced at him, surprised.

“He told Dong-Ju anyway,” Kang-hyuk added dryly.

A faint breath of laughter passed between them—barely there, but real.

Kang-hyuk nudged him gently. “You don’t have to be okay all the time. And you’re allowed to not have the right words. Just… don’t disappear, Dae-hyun. We notice. We always notice.”

Dae-hyun’s eyes burned. But no tears came. Not yet. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. And Kang-hyuk, true to his nature, didn’t push. Just stood beside him—quiet, steady, like a lighthouse in fog. For the first time in a long while, Dae-hyun didn’t feel like he was drowning.

---

The trauma team’s break room had always been a strange kind of sanctuary—half-battered couch cushions, a fridge that hummed louder than necessary, cracked mugs with chipped handles, and the ghost of ramen past lingering in the air.

But that evening, the light was soft. The sun outside had begun its slow descent, casting a warm, honey-like glow through the window blinds. Everyone was there. Jang-Mi lounged on the arm of the couch, poking at her leftover tteokbokki with a chopstick. Gyeong-Won stood by the sink, rinsing out his coffee cup like he wasn’t three hours overdue to go home. Jaewon was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Dong-Ju, flipping through a tablet while half-listening to the banter bouncing around the room.

Soo-min and Ji-yoon sat shoulder to shoulder on the loveseat, the way they always did when they were waiting for something unspoken to change.

There had been a softness in the air lately—a readiness, a quiet hope—ever since Jang-Mi came back from the rooftop that day with her hands in her coat pocket and a tired, knowing smile on her face. She hadn’t said what happened up there. She didn’t need to.

And then the door opened.

It wasn’t loud. Just the simple creak of hinges and the familiar sound of Kang-hyuk’s steady footsteps—the kind that made people straighten without thinking.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

Dae-hyun followed behind him. And the room went still for a second.

He wasn’t smiling. But he was standing. Hoodie sleeves slightly pushed up, his hands tucked into his pockets, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His eyes met no one’s directly. But he was there—fully, undeniably there.

It was Ji-yoon who moved first.

“Dae-hyun?” she said, blinking.

But Soo-min was faster. She didn’t say a word. She just shot up from her seat and practically launched herself across the room with a squeak that was half-cry, half-laugh. Her arms wrapped around him before he could react.

“You absolute idiot,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You scared me. You scared me so bad.”

Dae-hyun stood frozen for a second. Then, slowly, his hands came up, unsure, awkward—but he rested them on her back.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Just that. Soft. Real.

Ji-yoon reached them next. She didn’t hug him—not right away. She stepped beside him, touched his shoulder, and said, “You okay now, or are we still lying to ourselves?”

He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Fifty-fifty,” he muttered.

She nodded. “Progress.”

“I missed you,” Soo-min mumbled against his chest.

He swallowed. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her scrub top. “I missed you, too.”

Across the room, Jaewon smiled so wide it tugged at the corner of his eyes. “About time,” he whispered to Dong-Ju, who just grinned and elbowed him gently.

Gyeong-Won leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, lips quirking. “Well, look at that. Miracle medicine: crying interns and rooftop therapy.”

Jang-Mi shook her head and sat back down, her voice dry. “Told you. Nothing beats the rooftop.”

Kang-hyuk said nothing as he walked further into the room. He went straight for the couch and dropped down beside Jaewon with a contented sigh, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees. His eyes were warm—that rare, rare softness that only the people in this room ever got to see.

“So,” Jaewon said, nudging him playfully. “What did you do? Threaten him? Drag him here by the hoodie?”

Kang-hyuk chuckled. “Tempted,” he said.

Dong-Ju raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, hyung. What did you say up there?”

The professor shrugged. “Didn’t need to say much. I just... stayed. That was enough.”

“That,” Jang-Mi said with a mock sigh, “is exactly why we call him Sensei Baek Kang-hyuk.”

Laughter bubbled through the room—warm, unhurried, like tea steeping on a lazy afternoon.

Dae-hyun, now seated between Soo-min and Ji-yoon on the couch, glanced around at the faces surrounding him. It was almost overwhelming, the way they welcomed him back like nothing had changed, while also holding space for everything that had.

He looked up, and for a fleeting second, his gaze met Kang-hyuk’s.

There was no pressure in that look. No demand.

Just quiet understanding.

Thank you.

Kang-hyuk gave a slight nod. You’re home.

Ji-yoon suddenly elbowed Dae-hyun. “Next time you spiral, warn us first, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Soo-min chimed in, eyes red but smiling. “We’ll drag you to the roof ourselves.”

Dae-hyun managed a real smile then. Small. Lopsided. “I’ll consider it.”

Chapter Text

The break room had long gone quiet. One by one, the team had wandered out— Jaewon tugging Kang-hyuk by the sleeve with a grin, Jang-Mi and Gyeong-Won heading toward the elevators, Dong-Ju slipping away with a yawn and a half-raised hand.

But the residents stayed.

Soo-min had clung to Dae-hyun’s sleeve the whole walk down the hall, still sniffing, while Ji-yoon walked a step behind, quiet, hands tucked in her pockets like always. No one said much as they slipped into the call room—the small, tucked-away corner where residents curled up between shifts, a space that smelled vaguely of lavender spray and instant coffee and warmth.

Dae-hyun stepped inside first, letting the door close with a soft click behind him. He stood awkwardly near the small desk for a moment, unsure. The couch was still pushed against the wall, and there were two clean blankets folded up at the end of the bed, which had never been properly made since orientation week.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Ji-yoon passed him, brushing past with the kind of practiced ease that came only from months of shared exhaustion. She tossed one of the blankets onto the couch and turned to him.

“Sit down, Dae-hyun,” she said. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

Soo-min flopped onto the bed like it was home. “Yeah,” she added, voice muffled in the pillow. “You’re trapped with us now.”

He looked between the two of them. “Are we... doing a sleepover?”

“Not really,” Ji-yoon said, sitting cross-legged on the floor and pulling open a drawer full of old snack wrappers. “We’re just reclaiming the space.”

Soo-min peeked up from the pillow. “Reclaiming it from sadness.”

Dae-hyun blinked. “I didn’t know sadness had territory here.”

“It did,” Soo-min mumbled. “But not anymore.”

He hesitated another beat, then walked over to the couch and sat down slowly. His shoulders were tense, his fingers twitching in his lap. But he was here. That had to count for something.

There was a long silence—not heavy, but not light either. The kind of silence that waits.

And then Ji-yoon broke it.

“You know,” she said, not looking at him, “you scared the hell out of us.”

He looked down at his hands. “I know.”

“You shut us out,” Soo-min said, sitting up now, her voice small. “Like we weren’t enough to talk to.”

“You are enough,” he said quickly, then paused. “That’s not why.”

“Then why?” Ji-yoon asked, gaze sharp. “You think you're the only one who’s ever had someone die on them?”

Dae-hyun flinched—not from the words, but the weight behind them. “I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“Too late,” Soo-min said, voice cracking. “We were already in it, Dae. The second that code blue rang out, and we realized it was you on the floor.”

Ji-yoon leaned back against the bed frame, her expression softening. “You don’t have to protect us from your grief.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to find the words.

“When I lost my parents,” he began quietly, “I didn’t talk to anyone either. Not really. I thought if I just kept moving, it wouldn’t catch up. So I built this... system. You know. Do the work. Keep your head down. Be useful. Don’t feel.”

He opened his eyes, and there was a rawness in them now—not quite tears, but something heavier.

“But that day,” he whispered, “when I lost that patient... it was like I was right back in that moment. The sirens, the lights, the helplessness. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. So I did what I always do. I shut it all down.”

“You shut us down, too,” Soo-min said, voice trembling. “I thought we were— I mean, the three of us— I thought we were family.”

“We are,” he said immediately, fiercely. “You and Ji-yoon... you’re my only family.”

Ji-yoon blinked, surprised by the urgency in his voice. Soo-min stared at him, her eyes wide and wet.

“But I didn’t know how to ask for help,” Dae-hyun admitted. “I didn’t know how to say I wasn’t okay without feeling like I was disappointing someone. Like I was weak.”

Ji-yoon snorted. “You know who else said that to me during first-year rotations?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Jaewon.”

Soo-min sat up straighter. “He did?”

“Yup,” Ji-yoon said, popping open a granola bar she found in the drawer. “Sat right there, looking like the weight of the world was on his back. Told me he didn’t want anyone to see him fall apart. And now look at him—totally head-over-heels for Professor Baek and drinking chamomile tea before bed.”

Dae-hyun’s lips twitched. “That’s... oddly comforting.”

Soo-min crawled across the bed, wrapped a blanket around all three of them—herself, Dae-hyun, and Ji-yoon—like a cocoon. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to talk every time,” she said softly. “But let us be near, okay?”

“Yeah,” Ji-yoon added, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. “Let us stay.”

And for the first time in a long time, Dae-hyun let himself lean back. Into the moment. Into the weight of the blanket, the comfort of friends who knew too much and loved him anyway.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to. They all understood. The call room lights buzzed faintly. Somewhere down the hall, monitors beeped and nurses laughed quietly behind the desk. The hospital never truly slept. But in that room, the world paused.

Three hearts. One silent promise. No more disappearing.

---

Kang-hyuk and Jaewon's Apartment

The apartment smelled like fabric softener and coffee.

Sunlight stretched through the gauzy curtains, dappling across the wooden floors as the hum of a kettle whispered in the background. In the kitchen, Kang-hyuk leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, buttering toast with the precision of a man who used to suture through earthquakes. Beside him, Jaewon stood barefoot, hair still damp from his shower, meticulously organizing vitamin pills into a tiny pill case—one for each day of the week.

“You do know I’m not eighty,” Kang-hyuk murmured, peering over Jaewon’s shoulder with a grin.

Jaewon didn’t even glance up. “You forgot your B12 twice last week.”

“I was busy saving lives.”

“You were playing Sudoku on the night shift.”

“...It was the extreme mode. Requires focus.”

Jaewon huffed a soft laugh, sliding the Monday pill into his coat pocket. “You need the vitamins more than the bragging rights.”

Kang-hyuk leaned in to press a sleepy kiss against Jaewon’s temple, his voice low with affection. “Fine. I’ll take them. Only because I know you’re secretly turned on by my responsible health choices.”

Jaewon rolled his eyes, cheeks warming. “Let’s just go before you start flirting with your cholesterol count.”

By the time they stepped into the hospital lobby—coats fluttering behind them, coffees in hand, stethoscopes around their necks—the morning crowd had already begun to flood in. A gurney rolled past, nurses chatting briskly about supplies, and a loudspeaker buzzed overhead with the day’s first call to radiology.

But the moment they turned the corner toward the trauma unit, they were met by—

“Ahaaa,” Jang-Mi sang, arms crossed and leaning casually by the entrance to the break room. “And here comes the lovebirds. Late, but glowing.”

Jaewon instinctively tried to tug his hand away, but Kang-hyuk held on tighter.

“Morning,” Kang-hyuk said smoothly, eyes gleaming.

“I should report you two for excessive sweetness before 8 a.m.,” Jang-Mi teased. “You’re gonna give the interns diabetes.”

Jaewon, now fully flustered, ducked his head with a muttered, “Good morning,” while Kang-hyuk simply grinned and walked right past her, hand still linked with Jaewon’s like it belonged there.

Right behind them, the glass doors swung open again—this time revealing Gyeong-Won and Dong-Ju, each with an oversized coffee in hand, looking like models from a caffeine-sponsored fashion campaign. Gyeong-Won took one look at Kang-hyuk’s and Jaewon’s still-intertwined fingers and let out a low whistle.

“Oh, so we’re public-public now?” he quipped.

Dong-Ju smirked. “Hand-holding before the interns clock in? You guys are bold.”

Jaewon looked as if he might spontaneously combust. “Can we not make this a thing—?”

“It’s already a thing,” Jang-Mi chimed in, sipping her tea. “Embrace it, Jaewon. You’re someone’s favorite office romance.”

And just when Kang-hyuk was about to deliver a witty retort, the true chaos arrived.

The trauma unit doors flung open as the ducklings—Soo-min, Ji-yoon, and Dae-hyun—marched in like a sitcom trio. Soo-min had a half-unwrapped sandwich in one hand and a tangle of headphone cords in the other, eyes bright and still chewing. Ji-yoon cradled her latte with the weary grace of someone already on her third hour of consciousness. Dae-hyun, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, was eyeing Soo-min with a familiar look of disapproval.

“You’re dropping crumbs,” he said plainly.

“I’m fueling my brain,” Soo-min replied, mouth still full.

“You’re feeding the ants.”

Without a word, Dae-hyun pulled a tissue from his coat and began wiping the crumbs off her sleeve. Reflexively, he handed his own coffee to Ji-yoon, who took it with practiced ease—no thank-you, no hesitation, as if this was simply muscle memory.

Ji-yoon took a sip, looked at him, and nodded. “Less bitter than yesterday.”

“New beans,” he murmured.

“You spoil her,” Soo-min said dramatically, finally finishing her sandwich and brushing crumbs off her lap.

And then she paused. Her eyes narrowed. Her entire expression shifted in the blink of an eye—curious first, then mischievous, then full-on theatrical as she gasped and pointed. “WAIT. Are you two—? Are you—still—holding hands?!”

Kang-hyuk didn’t even try to hide it.

Jaewon panicked. “We just—it’s not—”

Soo-min gasped again, louder this time. “I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. LOOK AT THESE TWO LOVE BIRDS.”

And with that, she bolted forward—baby penguin steps, arms flailing—until she reached the two men, then dramatically lifted their intertwined hands into the air like a referee declaring a winning team.

“EVERYONE, LOOK!!! THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS! IN PUBLIC!”

The trauma unit, already buzzing with morning energy, burst into laughter and good-natured hoots.

Jang-Mi leaned back in her chair, cackling. Gyeong-Won and Dong-Ju exchanged smirks. Nurses clapped. A few med students craned their necks from the hallway.

Jaewon covered his face with one hand, bright red. Kang-hyuk just leaned into the attention, chuckling softly as he let Soo-min swing their hands back and forth like a victory banner.

Behind them, Ji-yoon nudged Dae-hyun with her elbow. “She’s back to herself.”

Dae-hyun glanced toward Soo-min, eyes soft despite his usual quiet. “Yeah. I missed this.”

Ji-yoon smiled, watching as Soo-min spun in a small circle, giggling as Kang-hyuk patted her head like a proud dad while Jaewon threatened to retire from public life.

“You think they’re embarrassed?” Ji-yoon asked.

“Nah,” Dae-hyun replied. “They’ll survive.”

“They better. I’m printing this moment in my brain forever.”

And as the trauma unit filled with more laughter, footsteps, and rustling charts, the team settled back into its rhythm—not the same as before, but something warmer. Familiar. Like puzzle pieces sliding into place.

Their world moved on. Together. Always together.

---

The laughter still lingered in the corners of the trauma bay, warm and echoing from the earlier teasing, when the intercom crackled sharply over their heads.

Trauma incoming. ETA three minutes. Single patient. Car collision—mid-30s male, unconscious. Suspected internal bleeding.

Nurse Agnes’s voice rang through the unit, brisk and unflinching.

Every heart dropped into professional mode.

Conversations cut mid-sentence. Coffee cups were abandoned. A silence, not tense but focused, swept the room like a wave.

Jaewon was the first to speak—his voice crisp, grounded, yet carrying the kind of calm that cut through adrenaline like a scalpel. “Ji-yoon. Dae-hyun. You’re leading point. I want assessment and stabilization. Soo-min, prep trauma bay two—blood panel, crossmatch, FAST machine ready.”

“Yes, Dr. Yang!” Ji-yoon replied sharply.

“Got it!” Soo-min added, already jogging toward the supply cabinet.

Dae-hyun gave a tight nod, pulling on his gloves, glancing at Ji-yoon beside him. There was no need for a plan. No hesitation.

They moved.

Ji-yoon was already flipping through the digital chart on the trauma board, eyes scanning vitals that were dropping too fast. “BP’s unstable. GCS 7. We’re looking at a possible hemothorax. He’s losing volume somewhere. Be ready.”

Dae-hyun stepped into the trauma bay and began clearing the gurney path with a few curt commands to the interns standing around too stiffly. “Move back. Monitor cables here—someone prep suction.”

Then the paramedics rolled in, pushing the stretcher fast and hard. A man lay motionless under the emergency blanket, blood smeared across his ribs, his breathing ragged. His shirt was half-cut open, oxygen mask in place, skin pallid.

“Thirty-six-year-old male. T-boned at an intersection. Lost consciousness at the scene. No eye-opening. Suspected abdominal trauma, tachycardic at 132,” the EMT rattled off as they transferred the patient onto the trauma bed.

“We’ve got him,” Ji-yoon said, slipping to the patient’s right. “Pulse thready. Pupils unequal. Dae-hyun?”

“On FAST,” he said, grabbing the probe and snapping on gel with smooth efficiency. “Show me something…”

Ji-yoon was already placing lines, shouting for a trauma panel, ordering units of O-neg blood.

“Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch. Lower left quadrant—he’s bleeding into the abdomen. Liver or spleen, can’t confirm yet.”

“Airway?”

“Intact. Breathing shallow. No signs of tracheal deviation,” Dae-hyun said, eyes not leaving the screen. “We need to intubate now before he crashes.”

“I’ve got it.” Ji-yoon grabbed the laryngoscope. “Push etomidate and sux. Let’s go.”

From the back of the trauma bay, Jaewon and Kang-hyuk watched—neither intervening, just watching. Arms crossed, coats unbuttoned, eyes sharp.

There was a long, suspended silence between them.

Then Jaewon murmured under his breath, lips barely moving. “You seeing this?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer at first. He didn’t have to. His eyes stayed fixed on the two residents, like he was watching something distant and familiar come back into focus. “…Yeah,” he finally said. “It’s like looking in a mirror.”

Because it was.

Ji-yoon—composed, razor-sharp, never missing a beat, even when the patient bucked under sedation. She inserted the tube with precision, called out confirmation of breath sounds, and adjusted the ETT like it were second nature.

And Dae-hyun—quiet, agile, reading the room and the vitals all at once, already coordinating with radiology and OR, setting up the push for transport without breaking a sweat.

It was like watching themselves from years ago: Jaewon and Kang-hyuk during their early years—raw, relentless, and impossibly in sync.

And now, those echoes lived on in the ducklings they had trained.

Ji-yoon stepped away from the head of the bed and looked over to Dae-hyun, who had already anticipated her next thought. “We take him to the OR now. He doesn’t have ten more minutes down here.”

“Let’s roll,” she said.

They turned to Jaewon and Kang-hyuk almost reflexively.

Jaewon tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. “You two lead the surgery,” he said, stepping forward and handing Ji-yoon the printed surgical file. “Professor Baek and I will scrub into OR 3. But this one? It’s yours.”

Ji-yoon blinked. “Seriously? We’re… leading?”

Dae-hyun looked at him, startled but already nodding.

Kang-hyuk gave a low hum that could have passed for a chuckle. “Don’t make us regret it.”

He didn’t smile fully, but the corner of his mouth lifted. Enough for them to know what he meant.

They had earned this.

In the OR, Ji-yoon and Dae-hyun took the lead like they were born for it. Jaewon observed silently from the second line, and Kang-hyuk—just a few feet away—watched them move like shadow and light.

Not flawless. Not perfect.

But theirs.

Every steady breath Ji-yoon took as she clamped the splenic artery, every way Dae-hyun anticipated suction before she even asked—it felt like legacy.

The nurses whispered about it later. How calm they had been. How quick. How Jaewon and Kang-hyuk had said nothing for most of the case except, “Let them.”

And it didn’t take long before the trauma team started talking.

“Did you see the ducklings in that case?”

“Dr. Yang and Professor Baek just watched them. Like—really watched.”

“It’s like they’re making a second version of themselves.”

Jaewon and Kang-hyuk never confirmed it. But they didn’t deny it either. Especially not when Kang-hyuk passed Dae-hyun later that night, slapped a hand on his shoulder, and muttered under his breath, “Good job today. Don’t let it get to your head.”

And Dae-hyun—who rarely smiled fully—let out the quietest laugh and nodded. “Yes, Professor.”

---

1 Week Later...  

The cafeteria was unusually noisy for a weekday lunch hour, but the trauma team didn’t mind. In fact, the noise barely registered over their own laughter.

They were gathered around their usual long table in the back corner of the hospital cafeteria—a spot unofficially reserved for “Team Chaos,” as the ER nurses affectionately (and accurately) called them. Jang-Mi had arrived first and claimed the territory with her large lunch tray and aggressively placed a medical journal. Gyeong-Won and Dong-Ju had flanked her not long after, balancing coffees and rice bowls. Kang-hyuk and Jaewon strolled in a little later, just barely on time after a last-minute post-op meeting, Jaewon still adjusting the sleeves of his coat while Kang-hyuk, without missing a beat, fixed the way Jaewon’s stethoscope sat around his neck.

And then, like clockwork, came the resident trio—their ducklings.

Soo-min arrived first, skipping slightly, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, her ID badge bouncing with every step. “I’m starving,” she announced to no one in particular and all of humanity in general, before collapsing into the seat beside Jang-Mi. Ji-yoon followed more gracefully, clutching her iced latte like a lifeline, while Dae-hyun trailed behind, balancing a tray with three different drink orders like he’d done it a thousand times.

“Here,” Dae-hyun said, wordlessly handing Ji-yoon her second coffee without needing to be asked. She accepted it with a small nod, as natural as breathing.

“You’re an angel,” she murmured, eyes still half-shut.

“Messy angel,” he replied dryly, turning his attention to Soo-min. “You got crumbs on your chart again.”

Soo-min blinked. “What? I just cleaned it!” She looked down—and yes, somehow, there were crumbs. Again.

Dae-hyun sighed and pulled a tissue from his coat pocket, reaching over to wipe the laminated surface like a tired older brother dealing with his endlessly chaotic siblings.

Across the table, Kang-hyuk and Jaewon were already mid-conversation with Dong-Ju, something about the latest thoracotomy case. Gyeong-Won leaned back in his chair, sipping his hot broth contentedly while Jang-Mi chuckled at the way Soo-min was now defending herself with loud indignation.

And then, the murmurs started.

“Hey… did you hear?”

“Someone said they’re exactly like them…”

“I heard Professor Baek said it himself—he said it’s like looking into a mirror…”

At first, no one noticed. But then a group of interns passed a little too close to the trauma team’s table, not-so-subtly pointing in the direction of Ji-yoon and Dae-hyun. One of them whispered something and stifled a giggle.

Soo-min blinked, mid-bite. “Wait. Are they talking about us?”

“No,” Ji-yoon said instantly.

“Yes,” Dong-Ju replied at the same time.

Ji-yoon whipped her head toward him. “What?”

“Oh come on,” Dong-Ju grinned. “You haven’t heard the rumors yet?”

“Ignore him,” Jaewon said, trying and failing to hide his laugh behind his chopsticks. “It’s not really a rumor. It’s just… word got around. After that trauma case you two handled. The one with the hemothorax last week?”

Kang-hyuk finally spoke, voice low and amused. “Apparently, people think you’re the new version of us.”

There was a pause.

Then Ji-yoon choked on her drink.

“What?!” she coughed, thumping her chest.

Soo-min's eyes practically lit up like neon. “Wait—wait wait wait. WHAT?!”

“They think you two are the next Jaewon and Kang-hyuk?” Jang-Mi said, eyebrows raised in delight. “Oh, this is good.”

“This is so good,” Gyeong-Won agreed, sipping his soup like he was watching a drama unfold.

“They work well together, sure,” Jaewon said lightly. “But it’s more than that. It’s… the rhythm. The unspoken communication. The trust.”

Kang-hyuk hummed in agreement. “Reminds me of someone.”

“Don’t start,” Ji-yoon groaned, hiding behind her coffee.

Soo-min, meanwhile, was bouncing in her seat. “Oh my god. Oh my god! Tell me everything. When did this start? Was it from the OR last week? Or that one time they stabilized that patient in the hallway? Dae-hyun, are you blushing?!”

“I’m not,” Dae-hyun replied, very much blushing.

“It’s probably when they handled that liver lac with no attending stepping in,” Dong-Ju said thoughtfully. “Professor Baek just let them lead. I heard the ICU nurse said it was like watching a symphony.”

“It was,” Jaewon admitted, smiling at Ji-yoon and Dae-hyun. “You were both incredible.”

Soo-min was practically squealing. “Okay, but—do you guys, like, know you’re that in sync?”

“We’re not,” Ji-yoon said quickly.

“It’s just training,” Dae-hyun added.

Kang-hyuk and Jaewon exchanged a look.

“Mm,” Kang-hyuk said. “Sure.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jaewon nodded with a wink.

Soo-min clutched her sandwich like it was a microphone. “Okay, but can I just say,” she said dramatically, “this is the greatest thing I’ve ever heard. You two are like our power duo legacy. You’re trauma royalty now.”

Ji-yoon nearly dropped her coffee. “I’m going to die,” she whispered.

“Long live the queen,” Dae-hyun muttered.

Everyone laughed.

For a moment, it was just the sound of shared joy—of chopsticks clinking, coffee cups hitting trays, and laughter echoing across the cafeteria walls. The table was alive with warmth, inside jokes, old bonds, and new stories being born.

Kang-hyuk leaned in closer to Jaewon and whispered, “We were never this dramatic, were we?”

Jaewon chuckled. “Oh, we absolutely were.”

He reached for Kang-hyuk’s hand beneath the table and gave it a quick squeeze, smiling softly as their ducklings descended into full-blown chaos again—Soo-min now trying to reenact Ji-yoon’s trauma bay orders while Dae-hyun face-palmed and Ji-yoon tried to bribe her with fries to stop.

It was loud. It was messy. It was family. And as the rest of the hospital watched from afar, whispering and wondering, the trauma team simply laughed louder—because they already knew the truth:

Legends aren’t born in silence.

They’re born in the noise.

Chapter Text

In the weeks that followed the crash case, the trauma wing of Hankuk National University Hospital felt brighter.

Not because the emergencies had lessened—they hadn’t. Not because the trauma unit finally got the new CT scanner—Chief Han’s budget hadn’t allowed that miracle. But somehow, between broken bones, code blues, and the daily buzz of beeping monitors and running footsteps, something had shifted. Something subtle. Something warm.

It was in the way Ji-yoon and Dae-hyun moved.

Their steps clicked in tandem now. Their voices overlapped with the same urgency. In the trauma bay, they worked like puzzle pieces that had found their edge—her sharp precision, his grounded calm. They didn’t have to speak much. They just moved. Adjusted. Switched roles without needing to glance.

At first, it was just Jaewon and Kang-hyuk who noticed.

Now, it was the entire hospital.

Rumors started like whispers in the hallways. First-floor nurses passing third-floor residents, pausing near the elevators with a knowing look.

“You’ve seen them, right? Trauma Center Residents? They’re like a younger version of Professor Baek and Dr. Yang.”

“Oh my god, yes. The same glare. The same rhythm. It’s terrifying and beautiful.”

“I swear I saw the tall one—what’s his name? Dae-hyun?—cut off an attending mid-sentence with a look. Just like Professor Baek.”

“And Ji-yoon? She’s totally Jaewon-coded. She even folds her arms like him.”

It was harmless, at first. Soft gossip exchanged over vending machines and hospital charts.

Until it wasn’t.

---

The cafeteria was unusually loud for a Monday. The kind of bubbling chaos that meant someone had a story, and half the trauma team had already started leaning in with chopsticks suspended mid-air, mouths half-open.

And into that bubbling chaos came Jang-Mi, tray in hand, eyes ablaze with the kind of nuclear gossip energy that only came once a month—if they were lucky.

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP!” she stage-whispered like a madwoman as she slammed her tray down beside Soo-min’s. “You are not ready for what I just heard on the second-floor stairs.”

“Oh no,” groaned Gyeong-Won, wiping sauce off his sleeve. “She’s got the face. The tea face.”

“Let her speak,” Dong-Ju deadpanned. “I haven’t been emotionally destroyed in days.”

“I swear to all that is holy, if this is about ghosts in the OB ward again—” Jaewon started, mid-stir of his soup.

“Shut up, shut up, listen!” Jang-Mi beamed, leaning in like she was trading national secrets. “The radiology team has officially started calling Ji-yoon and Dae-hyun the ‘Echo Twins.’”

“…Echo Twins?” Soo-min gasped, nearly dropping her kimchi.

“Yes!” Jang-Mi’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “Because apparently—get this—they move in perfect sync. And everyone says they’re like a living, breathing echo of Professors Baek and Jaewon back in the day.”

Kang-hyuk, calm as always beside Jaewon, took a long sip of his barley tea. “Do I even want to know what that means?”

“Oh, it means they’re obsessed,” Jang-Mi said gleefully. “And it’s spreading. Pediatrics has a betting pool on when they’ll start finishing each other’s sentences. Someone in neuro calls them ‘the trauma soulbond duo.’ One of the interns swore she saw Ji-yoon pass a scalpel without even looking, and Dae-hyun just—caught it.”

Jaewon blinked. “Wait, that actually happened?”

“It did!” Soo-min confirmed, pointing wildly. “During that multiple MVA last week! I was retracting! I thought they rehearsed it or something, it was terrifying.”

“They’re trauma mind-readers,” Dong-Ju murmured with mock awe. “The prophecy foretold this.”

Kang-hyuk raised an eyebrow. “What prophecy?”

“You know,” Gyeong-Won said airily, gesturing with his spoon. “When the stars align and two emotionally repressed overachievers form an unspoken pact of codependency under fluorescent lighting.”

Jaewon choked.

“They even have the stare,” Jang-Mi added, like she was listing symptoms of a rare condition. “You know the one. The mutual, vaguely annoyed, slightly fond, completely unreadable trauma stare you two used to do in 2020.”

Soo-min gasped again. “It’s true. I’ve seen it.”

“And they do the ‘huddled chart whisper’ thing now,” Dong-Ju said. “Corner of the trauma bay. Dae-hyun standing guard. Ji-yoon holding the clipboard like she’s issuing national orders.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaewon said slowly, “are we being… duplicated?”

“You’re being remastered,” Gyeong-Won said solemnly.

Soo-min leaned forward like she couldn’t contain herself. “Yesterday I watched them walk across the courtyard—same stride, same tempo, both with iced Americanos in their left hands—and I swear to god, a med student literally bowed at them.”

“They didn’t even notice!” Jang-Mi squeaked. “That’s the scariest part!”

And then—Right on cue. The cafeteria doors swung open. And in came the Echo Twins themselves.

Ji-yoon, crisp and composed in her navy scrub jacket, eyes sharp and cool as ever. Dae-hyun beside her, all silent presence and low-burning intensity, nursing a cup of coffee like it was an extension of his hand. The conversation ground to a halt.

The duo froze.

“…Why does everyone look guilty?” Ji-yoon asked warily.

“We’re not guilty,” Soo-min said brightly. “We’re just… in awe.”

“Why,” Dae-hyun said flatly.

Jang-Mi practically vibrated in her seat. “Did you guys coordinate your coffee orders this morning, or does the sync just come naturally?”

Dae-hyun glanced at Ji-yoon. Ji-yoon blinked back. Then both turned to the table like synchronized swimmers.

“Stop it,” Ji-yoon said, setting her tray down. “We’re normal.”

“Define normal,” Dong-Ju said.

“You guys literally passed a ventilator checklist back and forth without speaking this morning,” Gyeong-Won pointed out. “And then stared down a consultant until he apologized to the janitor.”

“You two scare me a little,” Jaewon said, squinting. “But I respect it.”

“I don’t respect it,” Jang-Mi muttered, fake-pouting. “They made trauma team B look like the Justice League during rounds. I was this close to faking an appendicitis just to get assigned to them.”

Dae-hyun just quietly sipped his coffee. Ji-yoon looked heavenward.

“You know what you are?” Gyeong-Won said, inspiration striking. “You’re the Trauma Oracle Duo.”

“The what now,” Ji-yoon deadpanned.

“You see things,” Jang-Mi nodded. “Like, mid-suction, Ji-yoon’s already handing over a suture kit before Dae-hyun even lifts his eyes. It’s freaky.”

“They said the same thing about Professors Baek and Jaewon,” Dong-Ju added, not looking up from his soup.

Soo-min wiggled her eyebrows. “It’s true. Some of us still remember the Trauma Tango of ’21.”

Jaewon groaned. “Please stop naming things.”

“You can’t stop history from repeating itself,” Jang-Mi said with an exaggerated shrug.

“And honestly?” Kang-hyuk finally spoke, voice low but warm. “They’re good. Very good.”

Dae-hyun looked up then, something unspoken in his gaze. Ji-yoon glanced sideways at him. Just a flicker of recognition. A pause.

Jaewon smiled, softer now. “Keep trusting each other. It’s rare. And it matters.”

The table fell into a quiet hum for a moment. Something real and quiet blooming between the jokes.

Until—From the door, a familiar bellow, “Where are my trauma duo prodigies?!”

Everyone turned.

Chief Han, grinning like a man who had waited his whole day for this moment, walked into the cafeteria with his tray and a twinkle in his eye.

“Ah, there they are,” he said cheerfully, plopping down beside Dong-Ju. “The Echo Twins, in the flesh.”

“Please no,” Ji-yoon muttered.

“Best partnership I’ve seen since those two stopped bickering and started dating,” he added, jabbing a thumb at Kang-hyuk and Jaewon.

Jaewon flushed. Kang-hyuk just took another sip of tea.

“They’re not dating,” Soo-min said, though her tone had officially crossed over into chaotic support mode. “Yet.”

Ji-yoon glared. Dae-hyun looked physically pained. “I’m going to defect to plastics,” he said quietly.

“You’re too competent,” Ji-yoon muttered. “They’ll never let you go.”

Everyone laughed. Warm and chaotic and far too invested.

And somewhere between the teasing, and the sync, and the matching coffees—The Echo Twins didn’t deny it anymore.

They just kept being themselves. Kept doing what they did best: Saving lives, Reading each other’s minds, And walking side by side, Like a myth taking shape. And the trauma team watched—fond, proud, and slightly unhinged—as the next chapter began to write itself.

History, after all, had a habit of echoing. And this one? This one was beautiful.

---

The lights overhead were sharp and silver, casting the operating room in the kind of brilliance reserved for miracles or catastrophes. Either could happen today.

Outside the glass of the observation deck, a crowd had gathered—not just interns and residents, but nurses on their breaks, general surgery staff, even a couple of neuro and cardio fellows who had no business being there. No one said it aloud, but they all knew. It was them again.

Dr. Park Ji-yoon and Dr. Choi Dae-hyun.

The duo who moved like ink across water. Unassuming, calm, but when handed a scalpel—they became something else entirely.

“Vitals stable,” murmured the anesthesiologist.

Ji-yoon didn’t respond. She was already watching the arterial line like it was breathing with her. Across the table, Dae-hyun adjusted the retractor with quiet precision, eyes flicking once to meet hers. She gave a single nod.

“Scalpel,” Ji-yoon said.

“Scalpel,” Dae-hyun answered.

And so they began.

It was a massive trauma repair—ruptured spleen, lacerated liver, crushed diaphragm. A multi-system car wreck injury that had been wheeled in mid-afternoon, all blood and chaos. Kang-hyuk himself had triaged the case, but when he saw the imaging, he handed the surgery off without hesitation.

To them.

Not because he didn’t care. But because he did.

Because when a case was on fire, and you needed hands that didn’t tremble, a mind that didn’t panic—you call Ji-yoon and Dae-hyun.

From the observation deck, the room was a stage.

They were the performance. Silent. Focused. Steady.

Ji-yoon’s hands moved first—clean, deliberate incisions through the abdominal wall, the cut so smooth it could’ve been art. Dae-hyun anticipated every instrument before she asked for it, already reaching for the suction and positioning it just as the blood began to pool.

Not a word passed between them.

Not because they didn’t need to—but because they didn’t have to.

Down in the OR, the surgical techs glanced at each other like they were watching a dance. Two surgeons moving in a choreography only they knew. Every motion fluid. Every silence loud.

“She’s clamping the splenic artery,” someone in the gallery whispered.

“No—he just beat her to it,” another replied. “He knew she was going for the bleed.”

A soft gasp rippled through the upper deck.

No theatrics. No flourish.

Just raw, practiced synchronicity.

Every intern in the room leaned closer to the glass.

They watched as Ji-yoon reached for the tie—Dae-hyun already had it in hand. She caught it mid-air without looking. They didn’t miss a beat. She kept cutting. He kept closing behind her like a shadow.

“Jesus,” one of the ortho residents muttered. “They’re like—”

“—two halves of one brain,” a neurosurgery fellow finished, awestruck.

Inside the OR, time slowed.

Ji-yoon guided her scalpel to the diaphragm tear, tracing the edge like a violinist tuning the string. Dae-hyun was already switching gloves, positioning clamps to lift the tissue.

But then—It happened. The monitor screamed. A sudden spike in pressure. The spleen, ruptured deeper than they thought. A massive arterial bleed began, flooding the field.

The room tensed.

“BP dropping,” called the anesthesiologist. “Heart rate climbing—110, 120—”

But the two at the table didn’t flinch.

Ji-yoon’s hand shot out—“Suction!”—while Dae-hyun had already jammed his palm onto the bleed site, applying direct pressure, leaning over, shielding the patient with his entire body.

“Clamp!” she snapped.

He found it, handed it over without looking.

“Lap pads—now!”

They packed the area in seconds, moving as if they’d rehearsed this moment in a dream. Ji-yoon located the secondary rupture beneath the first, clamped it clean. Dae-hyun held tension against the inferior edge, exposing the artery long enough for her to tie it off.

And just like that—the bleeding stopped.

A beat passed.

The monitor stabilized.

The room exhaled.

They didn’t. Not yet.

Ji-yoon looked up at him, breath steady but eyes sharp. “Seal the liver?”

Dae-hyun nodded once. “Already got the glue warming.”

From the gallery, the sound of someone clapping their hand against their forehead echoed faintly.

“Are they even human?” an intern whispered, starstruck.

Another, wide-eyed, leaned forward, whispering reverently, “I want to be like them.”

Ji-yoon adjusted her sutures. Dae-hyun checked the diaphragm. They sealed the bleeding edge of the liver, double-checked all clamps, and began to close. Every stitch fell into place like it had always belonged.

Not a single drop of hesitation.

Not a single wrong call.

They worked until the bleeding stopped. Until the field was clean. Until the patient—who had arrived teetering on the edge—was whole again.

When they finally stepped back, sweat clinging to the edges of their brows, the silence in the gallery above cracked into quiet awe.

They stripped their gloves in tandem.

Ji-yoon looked across the table at him.

He didn’t smile, but he gave the smallest tilt of his head. We did it.

And she, in her always-composed way, blinked once. We did.

They left the OR together. Quiet. Focused.

Just two silhouettes disappearing through the door. And behind the glass, a hundred quiet hearts knew they’d just witnessed something remarkable. Not just a save. Not just a miracle. But the birth of a legend.

---

The halls of the trauma wing were never truly quiet, but for a fleeting moment between chaos, Ji-yoon and Dae-hyun found a sliver of peace. They were walking side by side, the hum of overhead lights stretching above them, the scent of antiseptic and caffeine lingering faintly in the air. Their scrubs were wrinkled from the long day, ID tags swaying lightly with each step.

“I still can’t believe Chief Han actually said we were Professor Baek and Dr. Yang's 2.0,” Ji-yoon muttered, arms crossed but a smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

Dae-hyun snorted. “You heard that too?”

“He said it in front of everyone. Jang-Mi almost fell off her chair laughing.”

“She did fall,” Dae-hyun corrected, biting back a grin.

Their laughter echoed softly down the corridor as they made their way toward the vending machines, stretching legs and stealing a breath before the next case. There was something easy in the air between them, something unspoken but always understood. A rhythm. A pattern. A pulse that clicked.

But then—

“Wait! Wait, that’s them!”

Dae-hyun froze mid-step as a stampede of sneakers came screeching around the corner. A group of interns—at least six, possibly more—beelined straight toward them with eyes wide like they’d just spotted celebrities at a movie premiere.

“Dr. Park! Dr. Choi!”

“You guys are amazing in surgery—how do you stay that in sync?!”

“I saw the liver repair you did last week, you didn’t even look at each other and still passed instruments like mind readers!”

“Are you actually dating? Or is it just, like, pure surgical chemistry?!”

“Wait, who’s the Jaewon in this dynamic and who’s the Professor Baek—”

Ji-yoon blinked. “Oh no.”

“Oh no,” Dae-hyun echoed, already backing into the wall as the crowd surrounded them.

It was chaos. Questions layered on top of each other, voices climbing over one another like puppies fighting for attention. Someone had even pulled out a notepad, like this was a press conference. Dae-hyun looked at Ji-yoon, wide-eyed.

“We should’ve taken the stairwell.”

“I thought you liked the vending machines,” Ji-yoon hissed, elbowing him gently as she tried to fend off three different interns asking about vascular clamp preferences.

Then—salvation arrived, in the form of jangly bracelets and the crinkle of snack bags.

“Oh my god,” Soo-min deadpanned from the far end of the corridor, Doritos in one hand, instant coffee in the other. She nudged Dong-Ju, who was opening a bottle of milk tea. “Do you see that?”

“Yeah.” Dong-Ju blinked. “That’s… a lot of intern energy.”

Dae-hyun’s eyes met Soo-min’s across the chaos. He didn’t even say anything. He just gave the tiniest nod.

Soo-min inhaled deeply, cracked her neck, and then charged in with the force of a tiny typhoon. “Hey!” she chirped brightly, immediately worming her way into the crowd. “Did you guys know Ji-yoon once mistook a sponge for a tumor on a scan during her first week?”

Ji-yoon gasped. “Soo-min!”

“Or that Dae-hyun once spent an hour trying to suture a glove because he thought it was a burst bowel?”

“That was once,” Dae-hyun grumbled.

Soo-min just winked at the interns. “They’re human. Shocking, I know.”

The interns, starry-eyed, now focused entirely on Soo-min, pelting her with questions instead. “What about you, Dr. Seo? Are you also one of the Professor Baek-Jaewon parallels?!”

Dong-Ju, who had been quietly sipping his drink, suddenly found himself being dragged in as Soo-min hooked an arm through his.

“I’m her alibi for the glove story,” he deadpanned.

As the crowd swarmed Soo-min and Dong-Ju with giddy awe, Ji-yoon felt a hand slip around her wrist. Dae-hyun gently tugged, his smile apologetic but amused. “Run while they’re distracted?”

She nodded quickly. “Absolutely.”

They slipped away from the mob, half-walking, half-jogging down the hallway. Laughter bubbled between them like a private current. Ji-yoon panted softly, tugging her ponytail loose from where it had snagged.

“They really swarmed us.”

“I thought we were going to get eaten alive,” Dae-hyun said.

They paused near the stairwell, exchanging a look that said everything: the disbelief, the amusement, the deep-rooted friendship that felt like it had been carved into the hospital walls.

“You know where we’re going, right?” Dae-hyun asked, already pushing open the door.

Ji-yoon nodded. “Of course.”

They climbed the steps two at a time, the air cooling as they ascended. The rooftop door creaked shut behind them with a soft clang, muffled by the thick hum of the city wind. Up here, above the chaos of monitors and footsteps and fluorescent lights, the air was crisper, quieter. The skyline stretched wide and blue around them, and for a long moment, neither Ji-yoon nor Dae-hyun spoke.

Their breaths slowed in tandem. Dae-hyun leaned against the railing, arms folded, gaze tracking the blur of movement below. Ji-yoon stood beside him, close enough to feel the brush of his sleeve whenever the wind tugged it loose.

She exhaled slowly.

“They’re not going to stop, are they?” she said, voice light but tired. “The rumors. The questions. The wide-eyed interns asking if we’re some reincarnation of Professor Baek and Dr.Yang.”

Dae-hyun let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Might as well print our names under theirs on the staff board.”

Ji-yoon smirked, but then it faded, softened. Her eyes followed the edge of a rooftop garden blooming three stories down. “Thing is... I used to hate that. Being compared. I always thought I had to carve out my own lane. Be my own kind of surgeon. Be separate from someone else’s legacy.”

There was a pause. The wind picked up, catching strands of her hair and brushing them across her face. She tucked them behind her ear absentmindedly.

“But then you,” she said quietly. “You show up, and suddenly… the chaos starts working. I stop trying to make it work alone.”

Dae-hyun turned to her at that.

His face was unreadable at first, eyes steady beneath the low hang of his fringe. And then, with a soft tilt of his head, he asked, “When did you start trusting me?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. Her lips parted, but nothing came out at first.

Then—“I think it was that first case with the ruptured spleen. Remember? You caught the free fluid on the FAST before even the attending did.”

His brow furrowed, thinking back. “You yelled at me after.”

“I did not.”

“You did. You said if I ever made a call without telling you again, you’d personally install a beeper on my forehead.”

She tried not to laugh. Failed. “Okay, maybe I yelled. But I remember thinking… we could actually work together. That maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the quiet, emotionally constipated type I thought you were.”

He gave her a side glance. “I am.”

She laughed, but it turned gentler, the kind of laugh that faded into something almost shy.

“I just mean… I’m glad it’s you,” she said softly.

The wind caught her words and carried them off before she could decide whether she meant to say them aloud or not.

Dae-hyun stayed quiet for a while, looking down at the street far below them.

Then—“Me too.”

Ji-yoon glanced at him.

He kept staring straight ahead. “I used to think being alone made it easier to survive here. That if I didn’t get too close to anyone, I wouldn’t lose anything.”

There was a heaviness in his voice then—subtle, but it lingered.

“But when I work with you,” he continued, voice low, “it feels… different. I stop thinking about survival. I just move. I just… trust you. Without even trying.”

That silence fell again—the kind that pressed close, not awkward, but full. Like something unspoken was sitting right between them, and neither knew if they should reach for it.

Ji-yoon looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were still marked from the hours they’d spent in the OR that morning. Red. Sore. Beautiful in the way callouses are beautiful—earned.

“You know what I realized today?” she murmured.

“What?”

“I don’t mind the comparison anymore.”

Dae-hyun turned toward her fully now.

“Because… maybe it’s not that we’re copies,” she said, “but that we’re building something like what they built. Different. But solid. Built on the same kind of trust. And if that’s what people are seeing… then I’m okay with that.”

He stared at her for a long second. Then nodded.

“I don’t think I say this enough,” he said. “But I’m really grateful. For you. For… this partnership. Even when you call me emotionally constipated.”

Ji-yoon smiled slowly. “You’re welcome.”

He smiled back. That rare, soft Dae-hyun smile—just the curve of his lips and a flicker of light behind his usually unreadable gaze.

They stood in silence after that. Just the wind, and the skyline, and the quiet understanding between them.

Somewhere down the stairwell, Soo-min was probably recounting the intern chaos with dramatic hand gestures while Dong-Ju made himself the victim. Jaewon was probably watching it all unfold from a nurse station, already plotting his next round of teasing. Kang-hyuk, probably sipping coffee, pretending not to care but secretly keeping score.

But here, on the rooftop, none of it mattered.

Here, there was only this moment.

Ji-yoon nudged Dae-hyun with her elbow. “You think we’ll be that annoying in five years?”

“We already are,” he said.

She laughed, and he did too—low and warm and real.

And above them, the clouds passed slow and golden. Just two young doctors in the in-between of chaos and calm, standing on a rooftop, holding gratitude like something sacred between them

Chapter Text

There are some mornings that feel like mercy.

Not loud, not rushed, not even especially meaningful—just kind. The kind of morning that slips in through the curtains like an old friend, finds its way into the hush between heartbeats, and tells you to stay just a little longer.

And this morning—this quiet, golden, uneventful morning—was one of them.

Kang-hyuk woke first, as he always did, not because he was a morning person, but because his body had long since tuned itself to hospital rhythms. His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering in the grey half-light, and for a long, languid minute, he didn’t move. He simply stared at the ceiling, the curve of sunlight stretching across the plaster, the soft hum of the city just beginning to wake outside their apartment window.

And then he felt it—warmth. The unmistakable weight of another body draped across his own. Jaewon, asleep beside him, his breath steady and slow, his cheek pressed against Kang-hyuk’s collarbone, arms tucked between their chests like a curled-up cat.

Kang-hyuk’s first instinct wasn’t to move. It was to smile. That tiny, barely-there smile he only made when no one was looking.

Outside, the city was yawning. Inside, their bedroom was quiet, save for the distant honk of a bus and the gentle rustle of the linen sheets as Jaewon shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible against Kang-hyuk’s skin.

Kang-hyuk turned his head slightly, just enough to bury his lips in Jaewon’s hair.

He inhaled. Soft. Lemon shampoo. Sun-warmed sheets. Jaewon.

“Mmnn… why’re you awake,” came the grumbled protest from below, muffled into his chest.

“Hospital called,” Kang-hyuk replied, voice still husky with sleep. “Emergency surgery. I need to be there early.”

Jaewon groaned and nuzzled further into him. “Then why are you still in bed?”

“Because someone’s using me as a pillow.”

“You love it.”

He did. God, he did. But he didn’t say it aloud. He just reached up and carded his fingers through Jaewon’s messy hair, untangling it gently, as if every knot was a sentence he wanted to memorize.

“You should sleep in,” Kang-hyuk whispered. “You’re not in until ten.”

“Eleven,” Jaewon corrected, still refusing to open his eyes.

Kang-hyuk scoffed. “Slacker.”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

There was a lazy laugh, warm and scratchy. Jaewon finally opened his eyes, one at a time, peering up at Kang-hyuk like a sleepy lion disturbed from his nap.

Kang-hyuk glanced at the time on his phone. “Shit. Okay. Five-minute cuddle, then I’m getting up.”

Jaewon nodded solemnly and pulled the blanket up to cover both of them again.

“Hyung.”

“Yeah?”

“If you leave the bed, I will cry. Real tears. The ugly kind.”

Kang-hyuk turned, pressing a soft kiss just above Jaewon’s brow. “You’re dramatic.”

“You like that.”

“I really do.”

They lay there, bathed in early light, limbs tangled like ivy. Silence fell again, not heavy, but comfortable—old lovers' silence, filled with years of knowing what didn’t need to be said.

Eventually, Kang-hyuk groaned and sat up, shoving a hand through his tousled hair. “Okay. Shower. If I’m not out in ten minutes, assume I drowned.”

Jaewon gave him a lazy thumbs up and rolled to the other side of the bed, commandeering all the pillows. “Don’t die. I need someone to kill spiders.”

Kang-hyuk chuckled and disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of the shower began, steam curling out from the cracked door. Jaewon, half-asleep, rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a while before groaning dramatically and dragging himself out of bed.

The kitchen was already glowing with that morning haze—filtered sun through sheer curtains, countertops gleaming softly, plants lining the windowsill like silent green sentries. Jaewon started the kettle with one hand and pulled open the fridge with the other.

The water boiled. Jaewon poured it into the French press, letting the scent of ground beans rise with the steam. By the time Kang-hyuk emerged, towel slung low around his waist, Jaewon was already plating a haphazard breakfast—two pieces of toast, scrambled eggs, a sliced banana, and one suspiciously dented protein bar he’d found in the cabinet.

“You’re feeding me like a preschooler,” Kang-hyuk said, amused, buttoning his shirt with one hand while grabbing a fork with the other.

“You’re cranky when you’re hungry. I’m protecting the interns.”

“Fair.”

They stood side-by-side in the small kitchen, shoulder to shoulder, passing things wordlessly—coffee mugs, napkins, an extra pinch of salt. It was choreographed chaos. Jaewon wiped a bit of toothpaste off Kang-hyuk’s cheek with the corner of his sleeve. Kang-hyuk fixed Jaewon’s askew collar without being asked. They argued about what music to play in the car, even though they weren’t going together.

“I’ve got to stop by the bank before my shift,” Jaewon said as he pulled on his coat. “Some stupid account thing. I’ll drive straight to the hospital after.”

Kang-hyuk adjusted the strap of his watch, brow furrowed. “I could wait. Pick you up?”

Jaewon shook his head. “It’s out of the way. You go ahead. I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Cafeteria?”

“Trauma table. 12:30?”

“Deal.”

They stood in the entryway, both fully dressed now, each holding their own keys. Kang-hyuk reached out and gently straightened Jaewon’s tie, then smoothed his thumb across his cheek.

“Drive safe,” he said, and it wasn’t just a habit. It was a prayer.

“You too,” Jaewon murmured. “Don’t yell at too many nurses.”

“I’ll save some for you.”

“Generous.”

Kang-hyuk kissed him. Deep, lingering. Not rushed.

Just… there.

When they pulled apart, the world had already begun again outside.

Separate cars. Separate routes.

But they both left with one thing in common—They were thinking of lunch. Thinking of each other.

---

The trauma center was unusually gentle that morning, bathed in the early hush that fell just after the shift change but before the chaos had time to wake up. Sunlight streamed down through the east-facing windows in quiet ribbons, weaving gold across the linoleum floors and bouncing off the glass of charting stations. Machines hummed low, monitors blinked lazily, and the scent of strong drip coffee clung to the walls like an old friend refusing to leave.

And then, like clockwork, the sliding doors whispered open.

Kang-hyuk entered not like a storm but like sunlight after one—deliberate, warm, composed. He wore his white coat draped perfectly over a pale blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the hint of a vein-lined forearm.

The morning air followed him in, tousling his dark hair and brushing gently at the corners of his steady expression. He looked like a man who had already lived a small, perfect life before arriving at work. The kind of man who had kissed someone tenderly goodbye only an hour ago, who still carried the warmth of their hands on his back, their laughter on his collarbone.

And it was true. He had.

He walked through the corridor like he belonged to it—because he did—but there was something distinctly different about his aura today. Softer. Lighter. As if the morning had gifted him an extra layer of something tender to wear beneath his usual armor.

Soo-min was at the nurse station, elbow-deep in patient charts, her ponytail slightly crooked, her glasses sliding down her nose. She was muttering to herself in a rapid stream of jargon—something about missed vitals, IV drips, and rescheduled lab work—until a shift in atmosphere tugged at her attention. It wasn’t the kind of change that could be measured.

It was simply the subtle sense that someone familiar had arrived. Someone safe.

She looked up. And instantly brightened.

“Professor Baek!”

Her voice chimed across the floor like a silver bell, clear and effervescent. She twisted in her chair, hands flying upward in dramatic exasperation. “You're here early! Was the traffic bad? How was the ride? Wait—where’s Jaewon Oppa? Did he come with you? Did you two already have breakfast?!”

Kang-hyuk stopped just in front of her, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in fond amusement. He reached out and gently ruffled her hair, smoothing back the strands that had fallen from her clip with a fatherly sort of affection.

“Good morning to you too,” he said, voice rich and low. “Ride was smooth, no traffic at all. Left before the rush. Jaewon left a bit after me—said he needed to stop by the bank before his shift.”

Soo-min pouted. “But he said he’d bring me coffee today. He promised.”

“He also promised to file his charts on time,” Kang-hyuk replied, eyes dancing with mischief. “And yet.”

She gasped like she’d been betrayed. “You’re exposing him!”

He laughed softly, that quiet rumble that always felt like the gentlest thunder, then leaned in as if confiding a secret. “He did make breakfastthough. French toast. The fluffy kind. Dusted it with cinnamon, just the way I like.”

Soo-min’s jaw dropped. “That’s so domestic! Wait—did you two wake up at the same time? Did he kiss you goodbye? Did you—”

Before she could spiral further, Kang-hyuk plucked the pen she’d unknowingly stuck in her bun and handed it back to her.

“Get back to your charts, Soo-min.”

She huffed dramatically but resumed her paperwork, humming under her breath with a smile that lingered.

A few feet away, the rest of the trauma team had been quietly eavesdropping, pretending to be immersed in their own routines. But the act didn’t last long.

Jang-Mi, perched at her usual desk with a half-empty tumbler of green tea, exchanged a look with Gyeong-Won that said, They’re so obvious it’s ridiculous.

“She’s basically imprinting on him like a duckling,” Jang-Mi whispered.

“She thinks he hung the moon,” Gyeong-Won murmured back.

Dong-Ju, leaning on a counter with a protein bar half-chewed, muttered, “I give it a month before Soo-min starts calling him Appa by accident.”

“She already does when she’s drunk,” Ji-yoon chimed in without looking up from her tablet.

Dae-hyun, standing silently behind them with a fresh thermos of tea in hand, offered no words—just a ghost of a smile that curved at the corner of his mouth. He liked mornings like this.

Mornings where the team felt like a family before the day had the chance to break them.

As Kang-hyuk made his way over, Dong-Ju called out, “What’s with the early start? You miss us that much?”

Kang-hyuk gave him a side glance. “Emergency surgery. Thoracoabdominal impalement just rolled in. I was called about thirty minutes ago.”

The warmth in the air thinned, but didn’t vanish. It simply shifted into something sharper. The kind of alertness that snapped into place like a well-oiled machine. Gyeong-Won was already standing, grabbing gloves from his locker.

“I’ll scrub in with you,” he said.

Dong-Ju followed suit, tossing the remains of his protein bar into the bin. “I’m in too. Let’s go.”

Kang-hyuk nodded once, but paused as he passed Soo-min again. She looked up at him, brows knitting with concern.

“Be careful, okay?”

His hand brushed gently over the top of her head again, a silent promise wrapped in a touch.

“I always am.”

And with that, the three of them disappeared down the corridor, white coats trailing like banners of purpose. The elevator dinged. The doors shut behind them.

The trauma center resumed its gentle hum, but something about the moment lingered. Like the way Jaewon’s name still clung to the air. Like the way Kang-hyuk’s warmth had woven into the morning.

---

The sterile lights of the OR gave way to the golden warmth of midday as Kang-hyuk peeled off his surgical gown and scrub cap, the tension of the hours-long operation still coiled in his shoulders like a shadow refusing to let go. The thoracoabdominal impalement had been messy—blood loss, torn vessels, a compromised diaphragm. However, the patient was now stable, breathing on their own in the ICU, and that was all that mattered.

He dried his hands, his knuckles sore from hours of clamp-and-suture work, and stepped out of the surgical suite with the kind of practiced calm only surgeons earned after years of walking the knife’s edge. His first instinct, out of habit and muscle memory, was to reach into the pocket of his coat for his phone.

No messages.

No missed calls.

No little texts from Jaewon asking, “All done? I’m starving,” or “Meet me at our table. Got your usual.”

The lock screen glowed blank.

Kang-hyuk frowned, thumb hovering for a second longer as if the phone might miraculously buzz under his touch. But it stayed silent. He tucked it back into his coat.

“Maybe he’s already there,” he murmured to himself, rolling his shoulder to loosen the tension. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and leftover adrenaline. His stomach growled quietly in protest. Lunch. He said we’d meet at lunch.

Just then, Dong-Ju appeared from around the corner, running a hand through his hair.

“Soo-min just texted,” he said, pausing beside Kang-hyuk as Gyeong-Won joined them. “She said the rest of the team’s already at the cafeteria. Apparently, Jang-Mi stole someone’s side dish, Ji-yoon threatened her with a thermometer, and Dae-hyun told them both to sit down before they caused a scene.”

“Sounds about right,” Gyeong-Won deadpanned.

Kang-hyuk smiled faintly, grateful for the normalcy, even if something gnawed quietly at the back of his thoughts. Maybe Jaewon’s there too. Perhaps he forgot to text. Maybe he’s just laughing with the kids. It wouldn’t be the first time Jaewon got distracted in conversation and forgot his phone even existed.

So they headed down together, the three of them—Professor, Attending, Fellow—walking side by side through the glass corridors, their post-surgical rhythm falling back into something lighter. Dong-Ju recounted a moment during surgery where the suction machine nearly backfired, and Gyeong-Won replied with a dry quip about old equipment and older bureaucrats.

They passed a few nurses who bowed politely, a lab tech who offered them tired smiles, and a resident who nearly tripped over her own feet trying not to stare too long at Kang-hyuk.

But even as they walked, something in Kang-hyuk remained just a step removed.

The cafeteria was buzzing when they arrived—tables half-filled, trays clattering, the smell of bulgogi and kimchi stew mingling with cheap instant coffee and too-sweet pastries. The trauma team had claimed their usual long table near the corner window, where sunlight slanted in wide golden stripes across stainless steel and plastic trays.

Jang-Mi was mid-rant about a patient who had tried to flirt with her while bleeding from the head. Ji-yoon was calmly peeling an orange. Soo-min had her head on Dae-hyun’s shoulder, half-asleep from an early morning consult. They all looked up and brightened when the three surgeons approached.

“There he is!” Soo-min beamed at Kang-hyuk. “You survived the impalement!”

He smiled and reached over to pat her head again. “Barely. I needed at least three more clamps than we had.”

Dong-Ju slipped into the seat beside Ji-yoon, snatching an orange slice. Gyeong-Won sat with his back to the window, already eyeing the steamed egg on someone’s tray.

Kang-hyuk stood there for just a moment longer, scanning the table once, then again.

No Jaewon.

Not sitting beside Soo-min. Not standing in line at the food counter. Not laughing near the vending machines.

Just... not there.

A strange hollow pressed into his chest.

“Is Jaewon not here yet?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

Soo-min blinked. “Huh? No, I haven’t seen him all day.”

“I thought he’d be here by now,” Kang-hyuk replied, more to himself than to anyone else.

He pulled out a chair slowly and sat, posture still composed but now tighter around the shoulders. He reached for his tray, but his appetite felt dim. The soup had cooled by the time he lifted the spoon.

Maybe he’s just running late. Got pulled into rounds. Or maybe that bank errand took longer.

Still.

Still.

He checked his phone again under the table. Still no messages.

And despite the sound of laughter around him, of chopsticks clacking and playful jabs exchanged across the table, that silence in his inbox suddenly felt louder than everything else. Like an empty room inside his chest.

Kang-hyuk glanced once more at the cafeteria entrance, willing Jaewon to walk through like he always did—hair tousled, sleeves pushed up, lunch tray precariously balanced, and smile ready.

But the doorway stayed empty.

So Kang-hyuk straightened his shoulders, tried to shake off the whispering unease clawing gently up his spine, and forced a bite of lukewarm rice into his mouth.

He’ll come.

He always does.

Right?

But deep inside, beneath the calm veneer, something small and terrified had already begun to stir.

---

Lunch ended in waves of laughter, the kind that rose and fell like tides around worn trays and half-eaten dumplings. Gyeong-Won was still grumbling about someone eating his kimchi when they all stood and stretched, tucking chairs back with the casual rhythm of a team that had done this dance a thousand times.

Kang-hyuk walked behind the others, slower than usual, eyes drawn to his silent phone one more time.

Still nothing.

A soft coil of unease clung to his ribs, but he said nothing as they crossed through the long corridor connecting the cafeteria back to the trauma wing. Fluorescent light glinted across the tiled floors, footsteps echoing ahead of him. Nurses in pastel scrubs passed by with clipboards, carts hummed past, the background buzz of a living hospital stretching and shifting in motion.

They turned the corner into the main staff lounge just as the voice from the television crackled louder than usual.

Breaking news! just moments ago. A multi-vehicle collision involving a large commercial truck and several passenger cars has occurred on the city’s eastern expressway near Exit 12. Emergency responders are still assessing the scene, with early reports indicating several critical injuries…”

The screen flashed chaotic footage: glass, smoke, crumpled metal. Tires spun uselessly against asphalt. People running. The bright, jarring red of firetrucks and the electric blue of police tape weaving through mangled wreckage.

Everyone in the room froze.

Half-empty coffee mugs stopped midair. A nurse instinctively reached for the radio at her waist. Two interns moved toward the board, already preparing trauma rooms on instinct.

Dong-Ju muttered under his breath, “Here we go…”

And then—Kang-hyuk’s breath hitched.

The world suddenly narrowed to a flickering still frame on the screen. A black sedan. Front completely caved in. Driver’s side door crushed inwards. The camera panned quickly—almost too quickly—but it caught a single lingering image.

The license plate.

His mind blanked for a second. Froze. Then—No.

No, no, no.

He stepped forward, eyes locked on the screen, chest tightening around something sharp and invisible.

“…Jaewon…” he whispered, so soft that it vanished beneath the television’s static hum.

No one heard him.

But his expression—eyes gone wide, the color draining from his face, lips parted like the air had been knocked out of him—caught Dong-Ju’s attention first.

“Hyung?” he asked, brows furrowing. “What is it?”

Kang-hyuk didn’t respond.

He took another step forward like he could walk through the screen and shake the world back into something that made sense.

Dong-Ju followed his gaze. “What is it? What did you see?”

But Kang-hyuk’s body had gone rigid. His mind didn’t quite register what Dong-Ju said.

He only saw that car. The exact crack on the windshield he remembered Jaewon pointing out last week. The bumper sticker from a medical conference in Busan. The plate. His plate.

No, their plate.

His phone buzzed in his pocket like a sudden gunshot in silence.

Kang-hyuk snatched it out immediately.

Jaewon.

His name lighting up the screen.

Relief surged through him so violently it nearly stole his breath.

He answered before the second ring.

“Jaewon? Jaewon, where the hell are you? Are you okay? Where—”

But the voice that answered wasn’t Jaewon’s.

“Hello? Are you… Dr. Baek Kang-hyuk?”

Kang-hyuk stopped breathing.

“This is Paramedic Lee, I’m with Emergency Response Unit 5,” the man continued. His voice was professional, steady, but edged with urgency.

“I’m calling from your colleague’s phone. We found an ID badge—Dr. Yang Jaewon, listed under Hankuk National University Hospital. He was one of the victims in the pile-up on the eastern expressway.”

There was a sudden stillness in the room, like the world tilted slightly and forgot to correct itself.

“We’ve stabilized him for now,” the paramedic added. “He was semi-conscious when we extricated him, multiple lacerations and possible internal trauma. We’re en route to your hospital—ETA six minutes.”

Kang-hyuk didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

The phone was still pressed to his ear, but all the sound around him collapsed into a low, useless buzz.

His pulse thundered. His lungs forgot how to fill.

Dong-Ju grabbed his shoulder, eyes sharp now. “Hyung. What’s going on?”

And then—The intercom cracked to life overhead.

All emergency trauma staff, this is not a drill. Incoming multi-vehicle MCI, eastern expressway, multiple critical cases en route. All hands report to trauma bay. Repeat—Code Red incoming. All hands to trauma.

The paramedic was still speaking faintly into the phone.

“...he’s being kept stable, sir. I promise. But you should get ready.”

Kang-hyuk finally lowered the phone, his hands trembling in a way they hadn’t in years.

Dong-Ju stared at him. “Was that—?”

Kang-hyuk looked up.

And for a moment, the fear that lived behind his eyes was unmistakable.

“It’s Jaewon,” he said, barely above a whisper. “He’s… they’re bringing him here.”

Everyone around them jolted into motion—but Kang-hyuk remained frozen, just for one second longer.

Then, He moved. No hesitation. No room for it. The last time he’d run like this was for a patient coding on the table. But now he ran not with discipline or protocol—but something raw and wild and far too human.

He ran for Jaewon.

Chapter Text

The line went dead.

Kang-hyuk stood frozen—still gripping the phone, still hearing the static echo of the paramedic’s voice in the hollow of his chest.

His fingers trembled. His breath caught somewhere in the middle of his throat, refusing to pass through, as if time itself had ceased to move around him.

His team watched. Gyeong-Won, Dong-Ju, Jang-Mi, Ji-yoon, Soo-min, Dae-hyun—every last one of them now staring at Kang-hyuk with a deepening sense of dread that they couldn’t yet name.

His expression had shattered like glass dropped on sterile tile: not rage, not panic, but a rupture of something deeper. His eyes had lost focus. His lips were parted as if still trying to form a word, as if trying to deny what had just been spoken into the air.

“Hyung…?” Dong-Ju called gently, stepping forward.

Kang-hyuk didn’t respond.

He was staring blankly ahead, his mind failing to comprehend the weight of what he’d just been told.

The scene on the TV kept replaying behind his eyes—the twisted wreckage, the shattered glass, the slow pan of the camera over a car that he knew. A car he’d waxed with Jaewon just last weekend. The license plate. The dent on the left door from the time Jaewon accidentally hit the mailbox. His car.

And now… a paramedic with Jaewon’s ID badge.

It couldn’t be real.

It couldn’t be real.

And then—

“AMBULANCES INCOMING!” one of the nurses shouted from the sliding emergency bay doors. Her voice cracked like thunder across the tension, shaking everyone back into motion.

The trauma team immediately bolted toward the exit. Scrubs flared, badges swung from cords, sneakers pounded the tile. The sliding doors hissed open with an urgency that felt biblical.

Kang-hyuk ran.

His feet moved without thought. Every breath burned. His hands were shaking, palms sweating, heart racing—no, not racing, pounding—so loud it was the only thing he could hear.

Outside, the air was thick with heat and sirens.

Four ambulances screamed into the bay like wolves descending on prey. Doors flung open. Paramedics leapt out.

“Multiple car pile-up on the highway! First patient, 27-year-old female, head trauma, possible skull fracture!”

“Second incoming! Male, 45, chest contusion, tachycardic!”

Gyeong-Won and Jang-Mi immediately took the first stretcher. Soo-min and Ji-yoon the second.

And then, the fourth ambulance stopped. The doors burst open. Another paramedic leapt out, shouting over the chaos.

“CRITICAL! Unconscious male, late 20s, internal bleeding suspected, no external response! NAME IDENTIFIED—DR. YANG JAEWON!”

Kang-hyuk stopped mid-stride.

It was like someone had yanked the earth from beneath him.

“No,” he whispered.

A gurney came barreling out of the ambulance. Bloodstained sheets. A limp figure, unmoving, chest shallowly rising. The face was pale—cut, bruised—but unmistakably his. His Jaewon.

“No,” Kang-hyuk said again, louder now, voice strangled. “Jaewon—!”

He surged forward, pushing past nurses, nearly knocking over a supply cart.

“Jaewon!” he yelled, voice cracking as he reached the gurney. “Jaewon, can you hear me? Hey—hey, look at me, wake up, please—”

But Jaewon didn’t move.

The paramedic was still speaking, rapid-fire to the nurses, trying to update them on vitals and condition. “Unresponsive on scene, BP dropped to 70/40 in the ambulance, signs of abdominal trauma—possible spleen rupture—laceration on the left temple, midline shifted—he started seizing for a minute before we stabilized!”

Kang-hyuk’s hands reached for Jaewon’s face, trembling.

He cupped his cheek, gently brushing his fingers along the blood-streaked skin, avoiding the bruises.

Jaewon’s eyes were closed. His lashes trembled, but he didn’t stir. His lips were slightly parted. Blood stained the corner of his mouth.

A teardrop fell.

Kang-hyuk hadn’t realized he was crying until he saw it—his own tear, rolling down and landing softly on Jaewon’s cheek.

“Please,” Kang-hyuk whispered. “Please open your eyes. Please—wake up. You promised we’d meet for lunch. Remember? The cafeteria.”

No response.

He was still. So still. The kind of stillness that made doctors panic.

The kind that made Kang-hyuk fall apart.

Behind him, Dae-hyun had caught up—just in time to see the horror. He stumbled back a step, breath caught in his throat.

“Professor…” he murmured. “That’s—”

“I know,” Kang-hyuk said hoarsely. “I know.”

The gurney moved. The paramedics kept going, shouting vital signs and injuries as the nurses pushed through the trauma bay entrance.

Inside, the rest of the trauma team stood frozen.

Jang-Mi saw the blood and instantly gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. Her eyes filled with tears, body trembling. “No… no, that’s not—Jaewon? No—!”

Gyeong-Won went rigid, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ… that’s really him...”

Ji-yoon’s jaw locked tight. She reached for Soo-min’s hand without even realizing it, gripping it hard to keep herself steady.

Soo-min couldn’t speak. Her eyes filled instantly, hot tears pooling. She covered her mouth and leaned into Ji-yoon’s side. “He was supposed to eat with us,” she whispered.

Kang-hyuk was walking alongside the gurney now, hand still resting against Jaewon’s chest as if to reassure himself—he’s breathing, he’s still here, he’s still here.

“Get a trauma OR prepped—now!” he shouted. “Get Chief Han on the line! Tell him it’s Jaewon!”

The nurses moved in a blur. Codes were called over the intercom. Blood was ordered, scans prepped, anesthesiologists paged.

But for Kang-hyuk, the world had narrowed to the broken man on the gurney. His love. His partner. His Jaewon.

His hands were stained with Jaewon’s blood. His surgical mask, still around his neck, was wet with tears.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to collapse.

But there was no time.

“Don’t you dare die,” he whispered, voice cracking, eyes burning. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

The doors to the trauma OR opened. And Kang-hyuk followed Jaewon into the white light.

---

The OR lights cast a cold, clinical glow over the room, bleaching every color into pale, urgent monochrome. The air was thick—stiff with antiseptic, vibrating with tension, and filled with the frantic shuffle of feet against the tiled floor. The only sounds were the sharp beeps of a struggling heart monitor and the clipped, anxious voices of nurses and surgical techs trying to hold chaos at bay.

And there—on the table, draped in sterile blue, motionless beneath the metal arms of the overhead surgical lights—lay Jaewon.

Kang-hyuk stood at the edge of the room, his gloved hands trembling at his sides, barely able to breathe.

He hadn’t removed his surgical cap after his last case. It was still askew, pressed to his brow by sweat and panic, soaked now from the storm of his emotions breaking loose inside him. The mask hung loose around his neck—forgotten in the scramble—as his eyes stayed locked, haunted and disbelieving, on the man lying silent before him.

That wasn’t just another patient.

That was Jaewon.

His Jaewon.

“BP dropping again,” someone shouted.

“Eighty over forty!”

“Two more units of packed cells—get it in fast—he’s crashing!”

“Where is the CT scan result—?” Kang-hyuk’s voice cracked like a whip. “I need the damn scans now!”

But the edges of his voice frayed as it echoed into the sterile void. It was too loud, too desperate. He was unraveling, and everyone could hear it.

“Professor—!” Dae-hyun’s voice cut in, sharp but steady, as he grabbed Kang-hyuk’s forearm. His grip was firm, a grounding anchor amidst the storm. “You need to calm down.”

“I can’t calm down!” Kang-hyuk barked. His breath hitched violently as he turned, eyes wild and brimming. “That’s Jaewon—he’s the one on that table!”

And the room stilled. The air stilled. Even time seemed to hold its breath.

The team froze—not because they didn’t know what to do, but because the pillar they all leaned on… was breaking.

Kang-hyuk’s voice shook as he whispered, “That’s him… that’s my Jaewon…” like saying it aloud might bring the nightmare to heel.

Then—The doors flung open.

Chief Han entered.

His arrival didn’t make noise so much as it drew all sound into him—into the quiet gasp that escaped his lips when he saw who lay under the light.

He faltered. Just a half step. Just a breath.

But in that moment, the seasoned, stoic Chief of Trauma looked as if someone had struck him in the chest with a crowbar. His eyes went wide. He blinked—once, twice—as though trying to wake from a dream. A nightmare.

Then, duty took over.

He straightened.

He walked forward, not with command, but with quiet, reverent purpose.

When he reached Kang-hyuk, he placed a hand on his shoulder—steady, grounding, and impossibly gentle.

“You can’t do this,” Chief Han said softly.

Kang-hyuk didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He was stone and sorrow carved into a man’s frame.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t take this from me.”

“You’re not in the state—”

“I have to be,” Kang-hyuk bit out, his voice cracking open like an old wound. His entire body shook. “I have to save him. I have to.”

Chief Han’s grip didn’t waver. “If you love him… Kang-hyuk… If you love him, then you need to let go of the scalpel.”

The words sliced through him more brutally than any blade.

Because Chief Han was right, and it wasn’t fair.

Kang-hyuk turned slowly, like a man walking through water, through time. His eyes found Dong-Ju—already gowned, eyes steeled with determination, calm and ready. Dae-hyun, too, was gloved and standing beside the tray, his breath even but his jaw tight. Gyeong-Won stood at the vitals monitor, his hands poised, watching Kang-hyuk with quiet, aching worry.

The team was ready. His team. His family.

Kang-hyuk's hands hovered over Jaewon one last time. Trembling. Aching. His fingertips brushed Jaewon's wrist, ghosting over his pulse like a prayer, like an apology.

“Please,” he whispered. To them. To the world. To God. “Save him.”

Dong-Ju nodded, his voice steady but raw. “We will.”

And Kang-hyuk stepped back.

Each step away from the table was a fracture through his soul. His shoes scuffed across the floor—each one quieter than the last, until he was just a silhouette behind the OR glass. A man looking in. A surgeon turned witness. A lover turned bystander.

The operation began.

Inside, hands moved with precision, with practiced grace, with war-forged calm.

“Clamp ready.”

“Suction in.”

“Bleeding from the mesenteric root—”

“BP’s unstable—hang on—”

“We need more exposure—scalpel—”

Outside, Kang-hyuk watched with his heart in his throat. His hands—still gloved—hung limp and useless. Blood still crusted the edge of his sleeve from the last patient. But he didn’t move to wash. Didn’t move at all.

Because Jaewon was dying.

And he couldn’t do a thing about it.

He watched Dong-Ju’s hands—so steady, so sure—sew where he would’ve sewn. He watched Dae-hyun suction blood away from Jaewon’s abdomen, wiping the field clean with diligence. He watched Gyeong-Won monitor vitals like a hawk, calling out every small fluctuation with the weight of life and death behind his voice.

They were brilliant.

They were flawless.

They were trying to save him.

Kang-hyuk’s knuckles turned white where they clenched against the glass. His forehead touched the cold windowpane, and he closed his eyes for the briefest moment.

In that stillness, memories came rushing in like floodwater:

Jaewon laughing in the staff lounge, coffee in hand, teasing him gently about being too grumpy.

Jaewon tucking in a patient’s blanket at midnight, whispering that everything would be okay.

Jaewon kissing his forehead behind the ER supply closet when no one was looking.

Jaewon smiling up at him after a long surgery, too tired to stand, but still waiting for him.

Don’t go, Kang-hyuk thought. Not you. Not you too.

Inside, the vitals monitor let out a shrill warning.

Heart rate slowing.

“O2’s dropping—push epi!”

“Clamp again—hold pressure—now!”

The room moved faster. Voices louder. A frantic rhythm of survival. Of desperation. Of love. And Kang-hyuk remained at the glass, a man splintered down the middle, praying to gods he didn’t believe in.

Let him live.

Let me trade places.

Let him wake up. Please.

Let him come back. L et him come back to me.

---

The seconds bled into each other like open wounds.

Inside the OR, time twisted around itself. Each breath came sharp. Each movement—deliberate, desperate. The air smelled of antiseptic and iron. The bright surgical lights beat down like judgment.

Jaewon lay deathly still beneath their gloved hands.

“Vitals dropping—BP 60 over 30—”

“Heart rate’s unstable!”

Dong-Ju leaned in, brow taut with focus. “Clamp that bleeder—suction—give me a better view.”

Dae-hyun moved with a precision carved from years of practice, but even he was pale beneath his mask. The moment they’d opened Jaewon’s abdomen, the damage was worse than they feared—splenic rupture, mesenteric tears, active retroperitoneal bleeding. A battlefield beneath his skin.

“He’s crashing—” Gyeong-Won warned, voice rising. “We’re losing him—!”

“No,” Dae-hyun said quietly, fingers flying as he assisted Dong-Ju. “No, you’re not going now sunbae. Don’t you dare.”

But even as he said it, the pulse began to vanish from the monitor—like a wave pulling back from the shore.

Flatline.

A single, high-pitched tone screamed through the room.

Then silence.

Time stopped.

“Code blue—he’s coding—!” the nurse yelled.

“Start compressions—now!”

Everything exploded into motion.

Dong-Ju threw down his scalpel and climbed onto the stool beside the table, hands already pressing hard and fast into Jaewon’s chest. “One, two, three, four—”

“Charge the paddles—”

Dae-hyun grabbed the defibrillator, heart pounding like a war drum, hands barely able to hold steady.

From outside the OR, Kang-hyuk saw the moment the heart monitor went flat. That long, shrill beep split the air like thunder cracking through his ribs. He didn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

“No,” he whispered, frozen behind the glass. “No, no—please—please—!”

He slammed his palms against the viewing window, chest caving in like a house on fire.

Inside, Dong-Ju never stopped moving. “Charge to 200—clear!”

Jaewon’s body jolted as the electricity surged through him.

“Still no pulse—charge again—”

“Clear!”

“Come on, come on, come on,” Dae-hyun chanted under his breath, sweat sliding down his temple.

Still no response.

Still flatline.

The silence between the beeps felt like centuries.

Kang-hyuk pressed his forehead to the glass, fingers trembling as he reached out. “Don’t go...” he whispered. “Don’t you leave me, Jaewon. Not like this. Not now...”

He didn’t care who saw. The professors passing through the hallway. The nurses holding their breath. The interns pausing mid-step.

He didn’t care.

He only saw that table. That still form.

That heartbeat that had stopped.

“Come back to me,” he begged, voice cracking like dry leaves underfoot. “You promised. You said you’d meet me for lunch. You—” His voice broke completely. “You said you’d wait for me.”

Inside, Dong-Ju was still doing compressions, his arms aching, jaw clenched. “I am not losing you, Jaewon,” he growled. “I didn’t fight this hard for him to die now—”

The monitor blinked—Once. Then again. A slow, fragile pulse returned. Faint, barely a whisper.

“He’s back—” someone gasped.

The flatline lifted into a flickering green rhythm, shallow and unsteady, but alive.

The entire OR exhaled at once.

Dong-Ju finally stopped pressing. Dae-hyun leaned on the tray with both hands, his gloves shaking.

And outside, Kang-hyuk dropped to his knees. Not from weakness—but from overwhelming, staggering relief. The kind that made your bones ache. That split your soul wide open.

Tears he hadn’t let fall now ran down his face. He didn’t wipe them. He just stared at that flickering pulse on the screen like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Jaewon was alive. Barely. But alive.

Inside, the team resumed with renewed fire.

“Stabilize the bleed—clamp—hemostat—”

“BP’s climbing—95 over 60—”

“Respiratory function improving—”

They worked like clockwork. Like a family, forged in fire and fear. Dae-hyun handed instruments without needing to be told. Dong-Ju sutured the mesentery like he was repairing the fabric of fate itself, his eyes hollowed by panic now steadied by skill, led them through it.

But they all knew. It had been close. Too close. The line between life and death was a hair’s breadth wide—and Jaewon had teetered on it like a ghost.

Outside the OR, Kang-hyuk stayed kneeling. Hands pressed to the floor. A doctor. A professor. A man broken and reborn in a single moment. He could still hear Jaewon’s laugh in his head. Still see the way he smiled in the morning light. Still remember the way he whispered “see you later” like it was nothing.

And Kang-hyuk would cling to that until Jaewon woke up again.

Because love wasn’t made of flowers and vows. It was made of bleeding hands. Of standing outside the OR while the world crumbled. Of breaking apart just to hold on a little longer.

And when the surgery ended—when the bleeding was stopped, the incisions closed, the vitals stabilized—Dong-Ju stepped out of the OR, pulling off his gloves.

He looked at Kang-hyuk. “He’s stable,” he said softly.

Kang-hyuk didn’t reply. He just nodded once, breath trembling, then leaned his head back against the wall. And for the first time in hours, he let himself breathe.

Chapter Text

FLASHBACK - Jaewon's POV, Before the Crash

The day began in quiet shades of gray.

Clouds rolled in like tired travelers across the Seoul skyline, soft and swollen with unshed rain, their bellies dragging low over the peaks of buildings. Jaewon stepped out of the bank and exhaled a quiet breath, checking his watch. It was already 10:12 AM. He was late.

A small frown tugged at his brow. He hadn’t meant to take this long — just a quick signature, a document retrieval, a flash of his ID. But morning lines were sluggish, and the man behind the counter had been one of those who liked to talk.

Jaewon murmured his thanks, stepped back out into the cold morning air, and slid into the driver's seat of his car. The seat was still warm from earlier. He fastened his seatbelt, started the engine. Traffic was thick. It always was.

But he had a full day ahead—trauma rounds, a surgery consult, and a lunch break Kang-hyuk had promised to steal him away for, even if only for fifteen minutes. The thought of it made something soft swell in his chest.

He smiled to himself.

Kang-hyuk.

He’d been meaning to call him, just to say he was on the way. Just to hear his voice—that low, steady timbre that always calmed his thoughts even when the world around him spun too fast. There were mornings, sometimes, when all Jaewon needed was that voice to ground him. He didn't like being late—not when he knew Kang-hyuk was already at the hospital, probably pacing the hallway with coffee in one hand and concern in the other.

The sky darkened. His windshield caught the glint of gathering rain.

As he merged onto the main road, he reached one hand toward the passenger seat, fumbling for his phone. His eyes flicked down for a split second. Just a second—That was all it took.

The world cracked.

A flash of movement—a red van breaking a light. The screech of tires. Metal meeting metal in a sound not meant for the living. The scream of a horn. A sharp, immediate lurch as his car jolted sideways, thrown like a ragdoll.

Everything happened too fast and yet in the cruelest slow motion.

His body snapped forward, seatbelt jerking against his ribs like a fist. His head struck the window. The world outside became a smear of glass, smoke, and flying debris.

A white noise filled his ears.

Then—Stillness.

Crushed silence. Distant, muffled cries. The sound of something dripping. A siren, faint and ghostly in the far-off ether.

Jaewon blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The windshield had shattered into a lace of cracks. Rain tapped gently against it, mixing with the blood threading down his temple. His breath stuttered, shallow and tight. There was pain—everywhere. A dull roar in his side. Something sharp in his thigh. His chest ached like it had been caved in.

He tried to move.

Nothing answered.

His hands trembled against the steering wheel, knuckles bloodied, his body pinned between twisted steel and the indifferent silence of the street.

And then—like a distant whisper, far beneath the pain—came the cries of others.

People. Children. A woman screaming.

He turned his head, weakly, and through the spiderweb cracks of the window, he saw the outline of devastation—a chain reaction of collision, cars strewn across the intersection like broken toys, smoke curling into the sky.

He was a doctor.

He should help.

He wanted to help.

But he couldn’t even lift his hand.

His breath hitched. His chest burned. He opened his mouth to call for help—a paramedic, a bystander, anyone—but no sound emerged. Not even a whisper. His voice was gone. Strangled somewhere in his throat, as if the panic itself had torn it away.

No—

No, please—

Something inside him shattered—not bone, not blood—but something deeper. Something buried in the memory of childhood nights filled with silence and helplessness. He had always hated that feeling. The paralysis. The fear.

And now it came again—curling around his ribs, cold and suffocating.

He wanted to cry out, but all he could do was tremble.

He was scared.

He was bleeding.

And in the haze, in the silence, in the pain—one name came to him like a prayer.

Kang-hyuk.

He saw his face behind his eyes. That crooked half-smile in the OR. The warm hand that always found his wrist when Jaewon was overthinking. The voice that knew how to say his name like it meant everything.

He reached for his phone. Somehow, it had ended up beneath his leg, screen cracked, but still glowing. His fingers curled around it—barely. A ghost of strength left.

He wanted to dial. He wanted to tell Kang-hyuk I'm okay—even if it was a lie. Even if the truth was I'm scared. I'm hurting. I'm not okay.

But his hands wouldn’t move fast enough. His vision blurred again.

And then—lights.

Red. Blue. White.

Footsteps thudding. Radios buzzing.

“Male in the front—he’s still breathing— we’ve got pulse—get the gurney—!”

The car door groaned open. Cold wind rushed in.

Hands—steady, practiced—reached in to touch his wrist, his neck, his arm.

“He’s awake. Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

Jaewon tried to nod. The movement barely registered.

“Stay with us, alright? We’re gonna get you out.”

His voice, brittle and broken, cracked through the silence—barely above a whisper.

“…ID… badge… trauma… trauma surgeon…”

They were already lifting him. The stretcher rocked beneath him.

“…Kang… hyuk…”

He didn’t know if they heard him. He didn’t know if the name made it past his broken mouth.

But he saw their face falter—the medic. A flicker of recognition, maybe.

He held on to that. Just that. Just that much. The world around him tilted. Lights above him blurred into watercolor. The grip he had on his phone loosened.

His last thought was of Kang-hyuk. The way he always stood in the operating room, lit from behind like a saint. The sound of his laugh in the cafeteria at midnight. The warmth of his voice whispering, “Go home early tonight, Jaewon…”

Jaewon exhaled. And then—Darkness.

FLASHBACK END - ICU

The world returned in fragments.