The white tiles of the "Lumière" Hospital operating theater gleamed under the surgical lights with an almost aggressive precision. For Jong Tae-Hee, every reflection seemed to underscore his own clumsiness. In the locker room just minutes earlier, he had nearly knocked over his locker while pulling on his scrub top.
— Easy there, champ. If you scratch the metal as hard as you're cramming your anatomy, we're going to have to call maintenance.
A heavy, familiar hand dropped onto Tae-Hee's shoulder. Dave Brownson, the resident whose frame always seemed too wide for the hospital corridors, flashed a smile that could have lit up the entire floor. Tae-Hee felt his ears heat up instantly.
— Sorry, Dave... I'm just a little...
— Tense? Stressed? Ready to faint like a sheet of paper in a category 4 gale? It's normal, little scholar. It's the big day.
Dave stepped closer, looking conspiratorial, lowering his baritone voice:
— Between us, I had to whisper a few sweet nothings to the Chief of Service just to get him to agree to let an extern under Douglas's feet today. So, don't make me look like a liar, okay? Show them that Koreans have the scalpel in their blood.
Tae-Hee looked down, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.
— Thank you, Dave. I'll make it up to you... I promise.
— Oh, I'm counting on it! You're buying me a coffee. A real one, not that dishwater from the second-floor vending machine.
With a fluid motion, Dave grabbed his surgical cap, adjusted it with heroic nonchalance, and, before stepping through the door, turned back to blow a finger-heart that seemed to ricochet off Tae-Hee's chest.
The latter remained rooted to the spot, his face turning peony-red, before scurrying off so as not to lose his place in the line.
In the corridor leading to the OR, the atmosphere changed radically. The other students were whispering, looking grave.
— Did you see Douglas's face? asked Sarah, another extern, adjusting her mask with a trembling hand.
— Word is he broke three clamps yesterday just because a resident breathed too loudly, Marc added, frowning. Tae-Hee, stay well behind him, or you're going to end up as a punching bag.
Tae-Hee swallowed hard. Dr. Douglas's reputation preceded him: a genius of orthopedics, certainly, but with the temperament of an active volcano. Yet, as they entered the operating room, the silence that reigned was almost more terrifying than shouting.
The acrid scent of iodine solution and the hum of the machines created a sanctuary-like atmosphere. At the center, Dr. Douglas, already gloved, was staring at a massive wall screen.
Suddenly, the image flickered to life. Dr. Christopher Ashton's face appeared. He was slumped in a leather sofa thousands of miles away, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. His nonchalance was almost insulting given the tension in the block. His features were fine, possessing a beauty that was almost unsettling for a man whose hands had rebuilt hundreds of lives.
— Go ahead, Douglas. Don't waste my afternoon. Begin.
Ashton's voice, drawling and self-assured, acted like a trigger. Douglas didn't reply, but his jaw tightened.
— Scalpel, he ordered in a dry voice.
Tae-Hee, relegated to the background behind Dave, rose on his tiptoes. He saw the blade sink with surgical precision into the flesh of the patient's leg. The first red line appeared, clean.
— Deeper on the lateral incision, Douglas, Ashton called out through the screen, without even sitting up. You're just stroking the skin there. This isn't an aesthetic salon.
Tae-Hee saw Douglas's fingers tighten on the instrument. Dave, right next to him, shot a sideways glance at Tae-Hee and widened his eyes, mimicking an explosion with his hands behind the boss's back. Tae-Hee stifled a nervous little laugh that turned into a muffled hiccup under his mask.
— Who made that noise? Douglas snapped without looking up from the wound.
Tae-Hee froze, his heart pounding wildly, praying for the floor to open up beneath his clogs. Dave intervened immediately, his tone perfectly calm:
— It's my personal heart rate monitor, Boss. Too much excitement seeing your technique up close.
Douglas grunted something unintelligible and resumed his work, while on the screen, Ashton sketched a smirk, clearly amused by the ambient discomfort. Tae-Hee took a deep breath, eyes glued to the incision, fascinated despite the fear by the dance of metal and flesh.
The steel of the scalpel sank into the superficial tissues with a fluidity that, despite the tension, fascinated Tae-Hee. Dr. Douglas worked with a controlled brutality, pulling back muscle layers to expose the patient's shattered joint.
— Retractors, Douglas barked.
Dave Brownson complied with a speed surprising for his size, sliding the metal instruments in to hold the wound gaping open. He threw a discrete wink at Tae-Hee, who stood just behind him, hands clasped against his chest to avoid contaminating his gloves.
— Watch the nerve bifurcation closely, kid, Dave whispered so low that only the student could hear. This is where it turns into high fashion.
On the giant screen, Dr. Ashton's silhouette seemed to have straightened slightly. He was no longer drinking his coffee. His steel-blue eyes scrutinized Douglas's every move with the intensity of a predator.
— You're too slow on the hemostasis, Douglas, Ashton's disembodied voice rang out. If you keep fumbling around the popliteal artery like a first-year student, we're going to end up turning this OR into a public swimming pool.
The veins in Douglas's neck bulged. He didn't answer, but the clinking of the forceps he tossed into the stainless steel tray rang out like gunshots in the silence of the room.
— Suction,Douglas ordered.
Sarah, the other student, stepped forward hurriedly. Her hand shook slightly. The slurping sound filled the space, clearing away the blood that masked the complex distal femur fracture. Douglas began to align the titanium plates. It was the work of a master jeweler, a millimeter-precise reconstruction.
Tae-Hee, however, was no longer just looking at the operative field. His eyes darted incessantly between the wound and the anesthesia monitor. Something wasn't right. The rhythm of the beeps—that constant melody that lulled the OR—had just changed frequency. Very slightly. Almost imperceptibly.
He saw the blood pressure curve ripple. An erratic fluctuation, like a silent warning that no one else seemed to catch. Douglas was too busy proving his worth to Ashton, and Dave was holding the tissues with total concentration.
Douglas prepared to screw in the main plate, a gesture that would seal the bone's position. Suddenly, Ashton's voice thundered, losing all of its usual nonchalance. It echoed against the sterile walls with an icy authority:
— Stop everything. Don't touch a thing.
The silence that followed was deafening. Douglas remained with his arm in the air, the surgical screwdriver a few millimeters from the plate. The nurses exchanged panicked looks. Dave Brownson himself seemed petrified, his brows furrowed in total incomprehension.
— What is it now? Douglas exploded, looking up at the screen, his face red with frustration. The reduction is perfect!
In the entire room, Tae-Hee was the only one who showed no surprise. He hadn't jumped. He had remained there, eyes fixed on the small red digit dropping slowly on the control screen, his heart gripped by a certainty that his innocence couldn't hide:
The patient was slipping into a shock that no one—save for the distant genius and the shy little student—had seen coming.