Seoul General Hospital — Operating Theater 3
The scalpel moved like a whisper in Kim Taehyung's hands — deliberate, precise, almost reverent.
"Clamp," he said, not raising his eyes. His tone didn't demand obedience. It simply assumed it.
Hyu handed it over without hesitation. Her gloved fingers brushed his for a second, but he didn't flinch, didn't even blink. His focus remained buried inside the open chest cavity before him.
They were repairing a complex aortic dissection. It was the kind of case that usually pulled in two senior surgeons, three residents, and a cardiovascular fellow. But today, it was just Kim and Hyu.
"Suction," he said.
She complied.
The operating theater was a silent cathedral. Every movement was ritual. The surgical assistants and nurses stood in quiet awe, their breathing nearly as hushed as the rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor.
Taehyung navigated the ruptured tissue with unnerving calm, isolating the dissection with minimal trauma to the surrounding vessels. The way he moved — like he'd seen this body before, like he knew exactly where it was supposed to break — left Hyu shaken.
She'd been in dozens of operations with him before, but something about this one felt different. Sharper. Colder.
The retractor trembled slightly in her grip.
"Steady," Kim said quietly. Not unkind, but firm.
"Sorry," she breathed.
"You're not here to apologize. You're here to work."
She swallowed hard, refocused.
The surgery continued with robotic precision. Vein clamps clicked into place. Grafts were sutured. Blood flow redirected. By the time Taehyung tied the final stitch, the patient's heart had resumed a smooth, stable rhythm. The monitor's beeping was steady again. Almost calm.
Taehyung peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the bin with surgical detachment.
"Close him up," he said and walked out.
—-
Hyu finished the closure and stepped out of the OR twenty minutes later, pulling down her mask and letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her face felt damp with sweat beneath her cap.
She found him in the observation room, where he sat alone, typing into the system like nothing extraordinary had just happened.
"That was brilliant," she said, half-whispered.
"It was necessary," he replied without looking up.
"You saved his life, Dr. Kim. That was textbook perfect."
He stopped typing.
"There is no such thing as perfection in surgery," he said. "Only approximation."
She tilted her head. "That sounds… rather bleak."
He looked at her then, just briefly. "Realistic."
Hyu leaned against the wall. "You didn't sleep again, did you?"
Taehyung stood, collecting his notes. "Irrelevant."
"You can't keep doing that. You're not a machine."
His gaze flicked toward her, unreadable.
"Aren't I?" he said.
She almost laughed, but something in his eyes made her pause.
"You're not a machine, Dr. Kim," she said, more gently this time. "You just act like one sometimes."
There was a flicker of something in his expression. Amusement? No. It was gone too quickly.
She studied him. His movements were always fluid, efficient, calculated. His speech minimal. His attention laser-focused.
And yet, there were moments — flashes in his eyes when no one else was looking — that revealed something else. Something fractured.
"Why did you become a surgeon?" she asked suddenly.
He blinked, then looked past her, out through the wide window to the hospital courtyard below.
"To fix what shouldn't have been broken," he said.
The words landed heavy between them.
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed. He checked the screen, frowned, and tucked it back into his coat.
"Anything urgent?" she asked.
"No," he said. "Just old friends."
—-
Later that evening, Hyu sat alone in the staff lounge, stirring a cup of instant coffee that had long since gone cold.
She couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said.
To fix what shouldn't have been broken.
There was so much about Kim Taehyung that didn't add up. He had no online presence. No family visits. No photos in his office. No real life outside the hospital. He was brilliant, admired, respected — and utterly alone.
Some called him eccentric. Others whispered rumors. Even tonight, she had overheard a nurse in the corridor whispering to another:
"Dr. Kim's girlfriend? I heard she was sick. He never talks about her, though."
"I don't think she's even alive," the other nurse had replied, half-jokingly.
They had both laughed.
But something about it had made Hyu's skin crawl.
She had joined Seoul General Hospital three years ago as a junior resident. Fresh out of school, determined and unsure, Hyu had stumbled her way through her early rotations like every other first-year. But from the moment she saw Dr. Kim in the OR—silent, focused, terrifyingly skilled—something inside her shifted.
She never believed in love at first sight, but obsession? That was different. Logical. Even clinical.
She respected him at first. Then she admired him. And before long, she had fallen in love with him.
Hopelessly, stupidly, irrevocably.
She had learned everything about him that the hospital records would allow. His credentials, surgical specialties, case success rates. But there were no traces of the man outside the hospital. Not in gossip, not in paper trails.
Everyone knew he had a girlfriend, though no one had ever seen her.
Sometimes, Hyu wondered if she even existed.
But even if she did, it didn't stop the ache in Hyu's chest whenever he brushed past her in the hallways. It didn't stop the secret thrill she felt during surgeries when she was the only one he trusted to assist.
It didn't stop the sleepless nights she spent replaying every clipped word, every passing glance.
She took out her phone, opened a text, and typed:
You said they were old friends. Are you going to go?
She stared at the message. Then deleted it.
She pocket her phone and walked out of the lounge.
She didn't know what compelled her feet to move the way they did, but ten minutes later, she found herself walking past the quiet corridor that led to the hospital's morgue, in the basement. The morgue was the last place she wanted to be in the hospital, for she had reasons kept to herself.
The hallway was dim, long and tiled, fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. No one usually came here around this hour.
To her surprise, the lights were on inside.
She stopped, peering through the narrow glass window.
Kim Taehyung was inside. Alone. Dressed in a clean lab coat. This was the second time she found him here, standing near the stainless steel drawers. The drawer was slightly ajar, maybe he was looking for something? He often took part in autopsies. He wasn't working on a cadaver or writing a report, however in his hand was his note book— the one he'd carry everywhere.
Then, as if sensing her presence, he turned.
She ducked away, pressing herself against the wall.
Her heart thundered in her chest. She stayed frozen for a minute, breathing hard.
Then she heard his phone ring inside the morgue. His voice was low when he answered.
"No. Not yet," he said.
A pause.
"Soon."
The call ended.
Hyu didn't move for a long time before quickly slipping back into the elevator and punching on buttons to the first floor— quick escape. She didn't know why she felt wrong for stalking him, but however it did. And it was non of her business, but he was a temptation. Her kind of obsession.
And somewhere in the hospital, he was still awake. Walking the halls like a ghost with unfinished business. Not the type that haunted the living. Probably.