Seyeong Hospital VIP Reception Room.
Chief Prosecutor Jang Cheol-min was staring at Hospital Director Park Seong-ho with a cold gaze. The expression of Assemblywoman Han Mi-yeong, seated beside him, was frozen like ice.
“So, let’s hear whatever excuses you have.”
Jang Cheol-min’s voice was as cold and precise as when he interrogated defendants in court.
The hospital director spoke, sweating coldly.
“Chief Prosecutor Jang, we did our best······.”
“Your best?”
Han Mi-yeong shook her head in disbelief.
Professor Kim Ha-seong, seated across from them, could not raise his head.
This time, Jang Cheol-min looked straight at Kim Ha-seong.
“Professor Kim Ha-seong.”
“Yes.”
“You were in charge of Yoon-a’s postoperative care two years ago, weren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you remember what medication you used at the time?”
Kim Ha-seong replied in a trembling voice.
“We followed the standard protocol······.”
“Standard? Was that standard supposed to turn our daughter into a vegetable?”
At Han Mi-yeong’s shout, Kim Ha-seong shrank his neck like a turtle.
Jang Cheol-min rose to his feet as if there was nothing more to say.
“I’ve worked as a prosecutor for thirty years. I know very well what constitutes destruction of evidence and what constitutes medical malpractice.”
The hospital director hurriedly spoke.
“Chief Prosecutor, that’s a misunderstanding······.”
“A misunderstanding?”
Jang Cheol-min’s eyes flashed.
“Do you know why we’re moving my daughter to another hospital? Because we can’t trust you anymore.”
As he left with his wife, Jang Cheol-min delivered one final blow.
“Don’t even think about getting away with this. And don’t try to leave the country.”
After Jang Cheol-min and Han Mi-yeong left, silence filled the hospital room.
The hospital director muttered,
“The only thing we can do now is······.”
“What is it?”
“Pray. Pray that Jang Yoon-a never wakes up!”
***
At that moment, when Taeho left the hospital room after preparing Yoon-a for transfer, a line of familiar faces stood in the corridor.
They were former colleagues who had worked with him in Seyeong Hospital’s neurosurgery department.
They had once studied together and gone in and out of the same operating rooms, but they had also been the first to turn their backs on Taeho when he became embroiled in the medical malpractice lawsuit.
Their expressions appeared calm, but Taeho could sense the anxiety beneath them. Some avoided his gaze, while others offered awkward nods. A few were smiling, but their fingertips fidgeted awkwardly inside their pockets.
“It’s been a long time, Kang Taeho.”
Cha Yeong-hu was the first to speak. He had once been the colleague closest to Taeho. But when trouble arose, he had also been the first to distance himself from him. Cha Yeong-hu smiled warmly, as though nothing had ever happened.
“I never thought we’d meet again like this. I saw the articles. You really made it big out in the countryside.”
Taeho did not respond. He slowly looked around at the others.
Most of them were sons and daughters of prestigious families from Seoul’s Gangnam district. They had talent, but they had always been one step behind him. Their reason for pushing him away had not been solely the medical lawsuit.
Jealousy.
That emotion still remained unchanged.
“I’m taking Yoon-a with me.”
At his words, a female doctor among them spoke.
“Do you really think that patient has any chance of recovering?”
There was a desperate need for reassurance in her question. Taeho remembered her from the days when he had been a resident—she had just joined the hospital as an intern back then.
They were all anxious.
What if Taeho took the patient away and somehow managed to cure her?
Taeho gave a slight nod.
“There was always a chance of recovery.”
Several of their expressions twisted at his words.
In particular, the corners of Cha Yeong-hu’s eyes trembled for an instant.
It was the expression of someone who had just remembered something.
“Ahem. Still, good luck.”
Cha Yeong-hu spoke with a forced cough.
Taeho’s intuition had developed to a razor’s edge, allowing him to read a great deal from even a single expression.
The corners of Cha Yeong-hu’s mouth had been pulled up by force. His fingers had unconsciously clutched his collar at the end of his sentence.
Confusion and agitation, along with words caught somewhere in his throat, unable to come out.
As though trying to hide his quickening breath, Cha Yeong-hu turned his head away.
As if fleeing.
*He remembered something just now.*
Taeho was reading the language of silence. Far more than words were hidden in that brief moment.
*This is getting more interesting than I expected.*
Taeho deliberately threw out another remark.
“I should review Yoon-a’s EMR records again. Especially the postoperative prescriptions.”
It happened at that very moment.
Jeong Sin-geon, a clinical assistant professor standing beside Cha Yeong-hu, suddenly clenched his jaw. His lower-jaw muscles bulged prominently.
“EMR······.”
Jeong Sin-geon began to mutter, then hurriedly shut his mouth.
“Do you remember something?”
At Taeho’s question, Jeong Sin-geon’s pupils trembled. He stared intently at a spot on the floor, trying to appear nonchalant.
“Ah, no. It’s just······. The EMR system was unstable back then, wasn’t it? You remember. The server went down and······.”
“The server?”
Taeho repeated.
“Huh? No. Maybe I’m mistaken.”
Jeong Sin-geon lowered his head even further. His right hand unconsciously toyed with the cellphone in his pocket.
Cha Yeong-hu lightly tapped Jeong Sin-geon on the shoulder.
“Dr. Jeong, are you all right?”
“I said I’m fine!”
Jeong Sin-geon shouted much louder than expected. The other medical staff in the corridor all turned their heads at once.
“······Sorry. I’ve just been under a little stress lately.”
He muttered in a small voice, glanced at his watch, and then hurriedly left.
Taeho observed every one of Jeong Sin-geon’s movements without missing a thing.
An awkward silence settled over them.
They were all silent.
But the very fact that they were struggling to remain silent was the loudest cry of all.
*Even if their mouths are shut, their bodies have already confessed plenty.*
Taeho slowly surveyed the medical staff lined up in the corridor.
“Director. The transfer preparations are complete.”
Nurse Park Geum-ja came out of the hospital room to report.
Taeho said nothing more and returned to Yoon-a’s room.
“Let’s get going.”
Taeho and Nurse Park wheeled the stretcher Yoon-a lay on out of the hospital.
***
The ambulance siren came to a stop in the courtyard of Geumsan Clinic.
When the rear doors opened, Yoon-a’s bed, covered by a white sheet, was slowly wheeled out.
“Carefully.”
Taeho cautioned the paramedics as he took hold of one side of the stretcher himself.
Han Mi-yeong climbed out behind them, her hands trembling. Yoon-ho held on to his mother’s arm as they walked together.
The door to the newly furnished special room opened, and Yoon-a was settled onto her new bed.
Han Mi-yeong stared at her daughter’s face for a long while. The hope she had abandoned somewhere along the way seemed to stir once more in a corner of her heart.
“Director Kang······. I’m truly, truly sorry.”
Han Mi-yeong spoke in a trembling voice. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.
She bent deeply at the waist.
“I apologize for everything—for misunderstanding you and resenting you all this time. Please take good care of our Yoon-a.”
It was the plea of a mother.
Taeho bowed his head to Han Mi-yeong.
“Please don’t worry. I’ll do my best.”
Yoon-ho approached the bedside and carefully clasped Yoon-a’s hand between both of his.
It was now a cold, slender hand, far smaller than her younger brother’s.
Yoon-ho’s voice trembled.
“Noona. Please, you have to wake up. I’ve waited for you for so long. We have to······ We have to talk and laugh together again. I still remember all those stories you used to tell me.”
Yoon-ho’s shoulders shook. Han Mi-yeong, watching, wiped away her tears as well.
Taeho watched them, feeling the weight of his responsibility pressing heavily upon him.
***
Special Room, Geumsan Clinic. It was already past two in the morning.
Yoon-a lay on the bed, appearing to sleep as she always did.
Taeho sat in the chair beside her bed and gazed at her in silence for a long time. His dried lips finally parted.
“······I’ve finally met you again, Yoon-a.”
Emotion surged up inside him before he could stop it.
When he clenched his molars, Taeho’s jaw tightened.
It was the moment when the human being Kang Taeho, hidden behind a doctor’s composure, revealed himself.
Taeho reached out and placed his hand atop Yoon-a’s.
Neither cold nor warm.
And yet, he could feel the life force that still remained within it.
Taeho quietly closed his eyes.
The regular breathing, the mechanically beating heart, and the brain-wave patterns displayed on the monitor.
Taeho slowly adjusted his breathing to match Yoon-a’s.
Inhale and exhale.
Gradually, his heart also began to follow Yoon-a’s rhythm.
*Patient Synesthesia.*
This ability manifested most intensely when he felt a deep attachment to or empathy for a patient. Taeho and Yoon-a had already been connected by an invisible thread for two years.
The face and breathing that had tormented him every night were now sharpening his senses.
“Hoo.”
When he opened his eyes after taking a deep breath, the space began to ripple faintly. He could feel Yoon-a’s bioenergy spreading like invisible waves.
And at that moment, Taeho sensed something astonishing.
*What······ is this?*
The inner world he perceived through Patient Synesthesia was different from what he had expected. It was not merely a state of unconsciousness. Rather, it was as though two different rhythms were intersecting.
One was a slow wave, as if sunk in a deep sleep. But the other······
*She’s awake. There’s a part of her that’s awake.*
Taeho’s eyes flew open. Within Yoon-a’s consciousness as perceived through synesthesia, there was clearly an area moving actively. As though she were pretending to sleep while observing her surroundings.
“Rema, prepare the audio files.”
Taeho’s voice was an octave lower than usual, but filled with certainty.
Matching the atmosphere, Rema asked in a calm voice.
—What should I prepare?
“Bring up the music Yoon-a used to like and the family voice data.”
A moment later, Rema displayed the materials on the screen.
—Loading······.
—Patient Jang Yoon-a: Piano performance recording from 2009 secured.
—Title: Chopin Nocturne, Op. 9 No. 2 — Version performed by the patient at age fifteen.
—Family voices: Speech samples from Han Mi-yeong (mother) and Jang Yoon-ho (younger brother) edited and ready.
Taeho switched on the specially prepared micro-vibration speaker beside the bed.
The music transmitted by Rema began to play. It was not carried through the air. Instead, low vibrations traveled along the bed frame and seeped deep into Yoon-a’s body.
At the same time, Taeho attached the electrode pads he had prepared to Yoon-a’s temples and the area around her occipital lobe. The voltage was adjusted to a level entirely harmless to the human body, but the wavelength was precise enough to stimulate the memory centers of the cerebral cortex.
“Apply Micro-Electrical Signal Protocol B-3. Begin synchronization with emotional stimulation.”
—Synchronization progress: 12% → 23% → 38%
This time, Taeho’s synesthesia captured something even more clearly.
The moment the music began, an intense reaction took place within Yoon-a. It was an explosion of emotion impossible for machines to measure, but unmistakable through synesthesia.
*Longing, sorrow, and anger?*
Taeho was startled. This was not merely a memory resurfacing. The emotions Yoon-a had consciously experienced over the past two years were all bursting forth at once.
—Progress: 52% → 64% —Minor increase in brain waves (α) detected.
The green line on the electrocardiogram monitor trembled faintly.
But Taeho already knew far more than the machines did.
“Yoon-a. You’re awake.”
Taeho’s voice trembled.
“You heard everything. Your mother and father talking, Yoon-ho crying—you heard it all.”
Yoon-a’s pupils moved faintly beneath her eyelids.
The desperate cry transmitted through Patient Synesthesia tore into Taeho’s heart.
*Help me. I’m here. I’m alive.*
Taeho was certain. Yoon-a was trapped.
Awake, but unable to move her body, unable to speak, unable to open her eyes—locked inside a terrifying prison.
“I understand. I know how scared and lonely you must have been······.”
Taeho looked at Yoon-a and made a vow.
“I’ll get you out of there. I promise.”