The doors parted with another chime, spilling her back into the fray.
Ha-rin straightened her coat and stepped out into the bustling hospital ward, her expression shifting seamlessly into professional resolve as she prepared to dive into the rhythm of her day.
The evening sun cast a warm, golden glow across the polished floors of the outpatient wing at Daesang Hospital-though the script noted Daeyang, it was the same sprawling complex of healing and haste.
In the Internal Medicine department, the air thrummed with quiet urgency: nurses calling out names in crisp voices, monitors beeping in steady pulses, patients murmuring anxiously in the waiting area as they awaited their turn.
Housekeeping staff wove deftly through the crowd, guiding weary visitors toward labs, the pharmacy, or specialized departments based on hurried referrals.
Amid this structured chaos sat Dr. Im Ha-rin, 34, in her consultation room-a sanctuary of organized efficiency with charts on the walls and a desk piled with files.
Her white coat hung crisp on her frame, stethoscope draped loosely around her neck, and her sharp eyes fixed intently on the printed lab results spread before her, ready to unravel the next patient's story.
Across the desk from Ha-rin sat an elderly couple, their quiet anticipation filling the small consultation room like a held breath.
Mr. Kang, in his late 60s, had been under her care for years, managing Stage 2 hypertension and mild ischemic heart disease with the steady determination of a man who'd learned to live alongside his conditions.
His wife perched anxiously beside him, her fingers twisting together in her lap as she watched Ha-rin pore over the reports.
Ha-rin's eyes moved with clinical precision across the pages-scanning the lipid profile, ECG findings, renal function tests, and the blood pressure logs meticulously recorded over the past month.
After a thoughtful pause, she set the papers down gently and looked up, her calm gaze meeting theirs. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, softening the edges of her professional mask.
"All the reports look stable," she said evenly. "No significant anomalies."
The couple exhaled in unison, a wave of relief washing over them. Mrs. Kang reached out to clasp her husband's hand, her eyes brimming with quiet joy that needed no words.
Ha-rin leaned forward slightly, her tone shifting to one of gentle teasing. "I must say, Mrs. Kang-you've done an impressive job managing his diet. His LDL is down, triglycerides are well within range. Very well done."
Mr. Kang glanced over at his wife with a mix of pride and sheepishness, the lines around his eyes crinkling. She blushed faintly, offering a small, modest nod in response.
"As for you, Mr. Kang," Ha-rin continued, "I'm adding a low-dose aspirin just to continue supporting your cardiovascular health. Keep monitoring your blood pressure daily, and please-don't skip your follow-up appointment next month. We don't want a repeat of last time."
Mr. Kang chuckled, a guilty rumble in his chest. "My wife already has the date circled in red."
"Good," Ha-rin replied, her smile widening just a touch. "Keep walking every day, and stay off that fried chicken you sneak when she's not looking."
The couple laughed softly, the sound light and genuine in the sterile room.
Ha-rin's tone remained professional, but it carried an undercurrent of warmth-comforting, humanizing.
In her hands, medical care transformed into something more like healing, a bridge between expertise and empathy.
Ha-rin maintained the perfect balance of professionalism and warmth, her tone calm yet approachable, as if bridging the gap between clinician and confidante.
Mr. Kang gave an apologetic nod, his eyes reflecting that he'd truly taken her dietary advice to heart this time.
She pulled out her prescription pad, the paper crisp under her fingers, and began writing with fluid, practiced strokes, her pen gliding across the surface as she spoke.
As her words filled the room, Mrs. Kang shot her husband a knowing glance-one that spoke volumes without a sound: You heard the doctor.
"Yes, I will. Thank you, doctor," Mr. Kang said sincerely, his voice steady with gratitude. He accepted the prescription as Ha-rin handed it over with a polite, reassuring smile.
The couple rose from their seats and offered a respectful bow, the gesture simple but profound in its humility.
Ha-rin returned it with a slight nod and a soft, "Take care," her eyes following them warmly as they left the consultation room, the door clicking shut behind them.
She turned back to her desk, her fingers dancing efficiently over the keyboard to type the final notes into Mr. Kang's digital record-calm, precise movements born of years of experience. With a final keystroke, she saved the entry and reached for the intercom button.
"Please send in the next patient," she said clearly into the speaker.
A moment later, the door opened with a gentle creak, and in walked a man in his mid-20s.
He looked visibly healthier than during his last visit-his gait steady and confident, his face brighter, carrying the subtle glow of recovery.
Ha-rin immediately recognized him as a former dengue patient she'd hospitalized just a month prior, the case still fresh in her memory.
"Ah, Mr. Min," she said, standing briefly as a welcoming gesture, her posture open and attentive. "You're looking much better today."
He smiled sheepishly as he settled into the chair across from her, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks to you, doctor. Honestly, I didn't think I'd bounce back this quickly."
Ha-rin returned the smile, already pulling up his past file on the monitor with a few quick clicks, her eyes scanning the screen. "Let's take a look and make sure your recovery is as complete as it seems."
He nodded, leaning forward slightly as she resumed reviewing his previous follow-up notes. "How are you feeling now?" she asked, her voice calm and attentive, inviting him to share without pressure.
"Much better, honestly," Mr. Min replied, settling into the chair with a relieved sigh. "But I still can't eat a full meal. Just small portions... it's frustrating."
Ha-rin gave a small, understanding nod, her attention fully on him as she listened. "Hmm." She stood smoothly, reaching for her stethoscope draped over the back of her chair.
"Let's do a quick check," she said, her voice steady and reassuring.
The patient, well-acquainted with the routine after several visits, adjusted his posture without prompting-rolling up his sleeve and sitting straight.
Ha-rin pressed the cool metal of the stethoscope gently against his chest, listening intently to the rhythm of his heart, then moved to his back, her movements efficient yet careful.
No words passed between them, just the quiet focus of clinical examination, the faint sounds of the hospital filtering in from beyond the door.
Satisfied, she returned to her seat, setting the stethoscope aside with a soft clink, and reached for her prescription pad once more.
"Your body's still recovering from the after-effects of dengue," she explained as she wrote, her pen moving with deliberate care.
"It's common to experience reduced appetite or discomfort with heavier meals. Your digestive system needs time to rebuild its strength."
She glanced up briefly to gauge his reaction, and he nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing visibly at her calm assurance.
"Still," Ha-rin added, scribbling the final details onto the prescription, "I'm including an appetite syrup. Take it three times a day-half an hour before meals. The rest of the medicines remain the same."
She tore the sheet cleanly from the pad and handed it over with a composed smile. The young man accepted it gratefully, his fingers brushing the paper as he nodded in understanding.
"Follow this for the next two weeks," she continued. "Stick to light, nutrient-rich meals. If there's no significant improvement, we'll run another blood panel."
"Understood. Thank you, doctor," he said, his voice laced with genuine appreciation. He bowed slightly from his seat, a small gesture of respect.
Ha-rin nodded in return, her tone professional yet kind. "Take care of yourself. Rest well."
"Thank you again, Doctor," he replied warmly before rising and exiting the consultation room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
As the echo of his footsteps faded, Ha-rin turned swiftly to her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard to enter the final notes into his medical record-concise, accurate entries that captured the nuances of his progress.
With practiced ease, she tapped the intercom button to notify the ward assistant, ready for the next chapter in her day's unfolding narrative.
Ha-rin expected a few seconds of calm to gather her thoughts, but instead, the phone on her desk-the direct hospital landline-buzzed sharply, cutting through the quiet like an alarm.
She picked it up, pressing the receiver to her ear.
"Dr. Im, can you come to the emergency room immediately?" The nurse's voice crackled through the line, tense and rushed, laced with the urgency of the moment.
There was a brief rustle on the other end-Ha-rin could hear the distant chaos of the ER filtering in: hurried footsteps echoing on tile, the clinking of metal instruments, someone yelling in frustration amid the frenzy.
"It's urgent," the nurse added, her voice lowering slightly, heavy with unease.
"The patient is refusing to receive any treatment unless they speak to a doctor first."
Ha-rin's eyes narrowed, her hand pausing mid-motion over the prescription pad she'd been about to set aside. "Where's Dr. Han? And Dr. Kim?"
A beat of silence stretched across the line, broken only by the muffled sounds of the ward.
"Dr. Kim is running late today," the nurse answered quickly, "and Dr. Han took the team in the ambulance-there was a multiple trauma case from a highway accident. She's still en route."
Ha-rin straightened in her chair, her posture shifting into resolve. "I'm coming."