The city never truly slept.
Even at 2:47 a.m., the ER at Daehan General buzzed with the low hum of fluorescent lights, nurses tapping on tablets, and the occasional groan of a patient high on painkillers. Dr. Seo Ra-hee, 29, stood hunched over her third cup of vending machine coffee, dark circles painting the edges of her tired eyes. Her long white coat clung to her slim frame, stained faintly with blood from the last emergency—a college boy who'd tried to impress his girlfriend with fireworks and almost lost two fingers.
She didn't complain. She never did. The ER was her battlefield, and she had long since learned how to survive in chaos. Her hands healed what others broke.
But tonight, the chaos was different.
The double doors burst open with a violent swing that rattled the walls. Paramedics rolled in a gurney, pushing fast. The man's body was sprawled across it, soaked in blood, unconscious but alive. Barely. A hole the size of a coin pierced his side, black suit torn, shirt drenched in red.
"He's crashing!" one of the nurses yelled.
"Gunshot wound, abdomen—possible liver damage!" the medic reported, struggling to hold the pressure against the bleeding. "No ID, no police escort. Just dumped near Han River. Someone called it in anonymously."
Ra-hee's heart skipped. Gunshot. No ID. No escort?
Her eyes fell on the man's face. Sharp jawline. Faint scar above his brow. A dragon tattoo curling under his collarbone. His age wasn't clear—maybe late 30s or early 40s—but power clung to him like smoke. Even unconscious, he looked like someone you shouldn't cross.
She stepped forward. "O.R. 3. Now."
As they wheeled him toward surgery, Ra-hee's fingers trembled—not out of fear, but from the gut instinct that told her this man wasn't just another body. He was important. Dangerous. And his presence would leave a mark on her life.
---
Inside the Operating Room
Time blurred inside the sterile walls.
"Scalpel," she said, her voice calm, commanding.
Beads of sweat formed along her forehead as her hands moved with precision. She cut through layers of muscle, found the bullet nestled dangerously near the liver, and worked quickly, stitching vessels with a skill born of sleepless nights and instinct.
The man's vitals spiked. He stirred under anesthesia—strong, even sedated.
"What the hell is he made of?" one nurse whispered.
"Steel," Ra-hee muttered.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the bleeding stopped. The bullet was out. The wound was closed. He would live.
She stripped off her gloves and leaned back, chest rising and falling. Her eyes returned to his face. He wasn't just handsome—he was the kind of man whose presence demanded silence, whose mere breathing felt like a threat.
Then—his eyes opened.
Just barely. Dark, like ink swirling in water. They locked on hers with unnatural clarity.
"You..." he rasped, voice hoarse. "You shouldn't have... saved me."
Ra-hee froze.
He passed out again.
---
Later That Night
She sat alone in the staff lounge, staring at the closed door of Recovery Room 5 where he lay sedated. She couldn't shake his words. You shouldn't have saved me.
Who was he?
A gangster? A wanted man? Someone the world had already tried to erase?
All she had done was her duty. She had no interest in anyone's secrets. And yet, for the first time, Ra-hee felt the weight of something greater than medicine pressing on her shoulders—an invisible thread tying her to that man.
She didn't know his name.
She didn't know his world.
But fate had already made its first cut.
To Be Continued...