Sunrise Medical Center looked exactly like every other clinic in Seoul.
Clean. Quiet. Slightly intimidating.
I checked the name on the building twice to make sure I hadn't come to the wrong place. I hadn't. The sign was very clear. The glass doors opened automatically, which I appreciated. Manual doors required commitment.
Inside, a nurse greeted me with a professional smile.
"Han Seo-jun?"
"Yes."
"Please have a seat. The doctor will see you shortly."
I sat.
Clinics had a specific atmosphere—too calm for bad news, too quiet for good news. A television played silently in the corner, subtitles scrolling beneath a morning talk show.
I waited.
And waited.
After exactly seven minutes, a man in a white coat appeared and called my name.
"Mr. Han."
I stood and followed him down a hallway that smelled faintly of disinfectant and regret.
We entered a small consultation room. He gestured for me to sit.
"Before we begin," he said, adjusting his glasses, "can you confirm your identity?"
I handed him my ID.
He checked it carefully. Too carefully.
That was concerning.
"Mr. Han," he began, folding his hands, "do you remember a visit you made to our clinic approximately six months ago?"
"Yes."
That visit had involved a lot of paperwork, a lot of legal language, and one extremely awkward conversation where a nurse avoided eye contact the entire time.
"I remember," I said.
He nodded slowly.
"There has been a… situation."
I leaned back slightly.
"How severe is the situation," I asked, "on a scale from 'minor inconvenience' to 'life-altering'?"
He hesitated.
That was not the answer I wanted.
"Life-altering," he said carefully.
I nodded.
"That's unfortunate."
He blinked. Just once.
"We recently discovered an internal error involving one of our stored samples," he continued. "Your sample."
I stared at him.
"…Yes."
"There was a mix-up in our system."
I waited.
"Your sample was used," he said, choosing each word like it might explode, "in a procedure that was not intended for it."
Silence filled the room.
I processed information efficiently. This, however, required a moment.
"You are saying," I said slowly, "that something of mine went somewhere it was not scheduled to go."
"That is… one way to put it."
"And this has consequences."
"Yes."
"How many consequences."
The doctor exhaled.
"One."
He slid a file across the desk.
I did not open it.
Instead, I asked the most logical question available.
"Is this legal?"
He winced.
"That depends on how you define—"
"Is this reversible?"
"No."
I nodded again.
"That narrows things down."
The doctor cleared his throat.
"The patient involved is… a public figure."
That was unexpected.
I raised an eyebrow.
"A politician?" I asked.
"No."
"An athlete?"
"No."
He paused.
"…An idol."
I stopped nodding.
An idol.
My brain immediately pulled up the morning news. The break. The vague explanations. The soft-focus photos.
That would be a coincidence.
Coincidences were inefficient.
"I see," I said.
The doctor leaned forward slightly.
"There is one more thing you need to know."
I finally opened the file.
And before I could read a single word, the door to the consultation room opened.
"Doctor!" someone hissed urgently. "She's here—"
The doctor stood up too fast.
I looked toward the door.
And for the first time that day, something truly unexpected was about to walk into my very organized life.