Chapter Text
The hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic and steamed rice from the cafeteria downstairs, a blend that clung to Ayla’s scrubs no matter how often she changed. Her pager buzzed against her hip as she pushed through the double doors of the neurosurgery wing, the weight of another long shift settling into her shoulders. She adjusted the stethoscope looped carelessly around her neck and scanned the board of incoming cases.
A name, half-familiar to the world outside but just another patient file here, blinked under “Observation.”
Han Jisung. Male, 24. Head trauma, minor concussion suspected.
Ayla drew in a steady breath and tugged the chart free. She didn’t have the luxury of hesitating. Patients weren’t names, or faces she might recognize from posters plastered around Seoul. They were symptoms, histories, vitals, until proven otherwise. Still, her pulse ticked faster as she read.
The door to Room 412 creaked as she pushed it open.
Inside, the fluorescent lights caught on a mop of brown hair falling messily across the young man’s forehead. He sat hunched on the edge of the bed, one hand braced against the mattress, the other absently worrying the hem of his hoodie sleeve. A bandage circled his temple, the gauze already a little disheveled as though he’d adjusted it himself.
His eyes lifted when she entered, dark, sharp, and then softened by weariness.
“Mr. Han?” Ayla’s voice stayed even, professional, though her accent rounded certain syllables. She closed the door quietly behind her. “I’m Dr. Damaur. I’ll be examining you today.”
He blinked once, then straightened. “Uh, yeah. Jisung’s fine.” His Korean was easy but edged with the informal rhythm of someone unused to hospitals. He gave a quick nod, as though trying to make the moment less formal than it was.
Ayla pulled on gloves, the snap of latex crisp in the quiet room. “I understand you had a fall backstage after your performance yesterday? Brief loss of balance?” She glanced at his file, not his face, resisting the tug of recognition that brushed the edge of her thoughts.
“Yeah, ” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess I didn’t see the cable. I hit the floor pretty hard. Felt dizzy after.”
She moved closer, the rubber soles of her shoes whispering against the linoleum. The scent of clean laundry and faint cologne clung to him, oddly out of place among the sterile walls.
“I’ll need to check your reflexes and your coordination. Any nausea? Blurred vision?”
“Some nausea earlier. Not now.” He swallowed, eyes flicking briefly to the chart in her hands as though it might reveal something he hadn’t said.
Ayla set the clipboard down, lowering herself to his eye level. She held out a penlight. “Follow the light with your eyes, please.”
The beam cut a small path across his pupils. He obeyed, though his lips pressed together, restless under the scrutiny. She noticed the faint tremor in his fingers as he gripped his sleeve tighter, the kind of nervous habit that betrayed him more than his calm voice did.
“You’re responsive.” she said, jotting a note quickly. “That’s good. I’d still recommend observation for the next 24 hours, given the impact.”
Jisung huffed a short laugh, one corner of his mouth tugging upward. “So… no going back to practice tonight, huh?”
The dryness of his tone drew her gaze. He wasn’t entirely joking.
Ayla folded her arms lightly, stethoscope resting against her wrist. “Not unless you’d like to end up here longer. Your brain needs rest more than your schedule does.”
He blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness, then chuckled under his breath. “Got it. Doctor’s orders.”
Her lips curved, almost a smile, before she caught herself. “Exactly. I’ll check in again later.”
As she reached for the door, his voice stopped her, hesitant, almost too soft to carry. “Thanks. For… taking it seriously.”
She turned her head slightly, green eyes meeting his just long enough to see the sincerity there before she slipped back into the hall, letting the door close behind her. The door latched shut behind her with a muted click, and Ayla exhaled slowly, as if she’d been holding her breath without noticing. She pressed her clipboard to her chest for a moment, feeling the faint indentation of the plastic edge against her collarbone.
On the board outside, four other names were waiting, two post-op check-ins, one new consult, and an elderly man scheduled for an MRI. Her pager was already flashing again. There wasn’t time to dwell on the way Jisung’s tone had shifted when he’d said thank you, or on the faint tremor in his hands that made him look less like someone she’d seen framed on a subway billboard and more like any other twenty-something trying not to unravel.
She pushed her hair back under her cap, squared her shoulders, and moved on. The rest of the afternoon blurred in fragments.
A woman in her forties recovering from meningioma surgery struggled to remember the day of the week. Ayla knelt beside her bed, coaxing the answer with patience, listening for the cadence of confusion in her voice, then made a careful note in her chart. Two rooms down, an older man dozed as the MRI transport team prepared him. His wife clutched Ayla’s sleeve as she explained the procedure again, slower this time, repeating until the woman’s knuckles loosened around the fabric. In the staff lounge, the bitter smell of over-brewed coffee clung to the counter. Ayla poured half a cup anyway, letting the heat scald her palm through the paper cup before she drained it in three swallows.
“You’re pushing it again.” a voice said from behind. Dr. Yoon, one of the senior residents, leaned against the doorway, his coat unbuttoned, tie loosened. His eyes skimmed the shadows under hers with the practiced sharpness of someone who knew how far exhaustion could be stretched before it snapped.
Ayla capped the cup, tossed it into the bin. “Rounds aren’t finished.”
He sighed, rubbing his temple. “You’ll learn that finishing doesn’t mean killing yourself to do it all at once. Go eat. You’ve been here since dawn.”
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, even though her legs ached and the elastic of her mask had rubbed a raw groove behind her ears.
“Fine.” Yoon’s tone was flat. “Just don’t drop in the middle of the ward.” She nodded, dismissing him with a faint smile that didn’t quite hold, and returned to the board.
By the time she circled back to Room 412, dusk had crept past the tall windows lining the corridor. The ward was quieter now, the rush of daytime visitors thinning into the hushed rhythm of evening. The scent of disinfectant was sharper, more noticeable without the distraction of constant footsteps. She pushed the door open softly, Jisung was still perched on the bed, hoodie now traded for a plain T-shirt. His hair stuck up at odd angles, evidence of a nap he probably hadn’t meant to take. A half-empty water bottle rested on the tray table beside him. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, looking younger, less guarded.
“You’re back,” he muttered, voice rough from sleep.
“Observation means observation,” Ayla said, setting the chart down. Her tone was light, almost dry. She checked his vitals, fingers brisk and precise as she adjusted the cuff around his arm. “Any dizziness since earlier?”
He shook his head. “Just bored.”
The corner of her mouth lifted before she could stop it. “Hospitals aren’t designed for entertainment.”
“Could’ve fooled me. The food tray was… memorable.” His lips twisted into a grin, and for a second the fatigue in his posture eased.
Ayla jotted down his blood pressure, steady within range, then glanced up. “If you’re well enough to complain about the food, that’s a good sign.”
“Guess that’s the bar, huh?” He leaned back against the pillow, studying her. “Hope I don’t sound rude with this, but your Korean is really good.”
The comment was casual, but his gaze lingered, curious. Ayla kept her focus on the chart. “You are not. Heard that before, so many time to be honest. I’m from Turkey, originally. Germany for school. Seoul for work.” She clipped the pen back to the folder, leaving it at that.
Jisung hummed, thoughtful, then looked away. “Long way to come. Must be hard.”
Her throat tightened briefly at the implication, though she only said, “It is.” Silence stretched a moment, filled by the faint beep of the monitor and the shuffle of nurses passing in the hall.
Finally, Ayla gathered her things. “You’re stable. I’ll check again before morning, but rest is the best treatment. Try to take it seriously.”
“Doctor’s orders,” he repeated, softer this time, almost amused. She didn’t let herself linger on it. She closed the chart with a snap and slipped back into the hallway, her steps steady, though something in her chest beat faster than before.
By the time Ayla peeled off her gloves for the last time that night, the clock on the ward wall read just past midnight. The halls had gone still in the way hospitals only did after visiting hours: dimmed lights, muted voices, the low hum of machinery filling the space where daytime chaos had been. Her legs felt hollow, each step carrying the weight of twelve hours layered one over the other.
She signed her last chart, returned the clipboard to its slot, and tugged off her cap. Strands of hair slipped loose, clinging to her temple with the faint dampness of sweat. The air outside the ward was cooler, tinged with the sterile tang of cleaning fluid and, faintly, the metallic smell of rain drifting in from the automatic doors at the end of the corridor. Her bag waited in her locker. She slung it over her shoulder, her hand brushing the stethoscope still looped around her neck before she tucked it away. Normally, she didn’t think twice after leaving a patient’s room. The stories, the faces, they blurred; they had to, or the work would swallow her whole.
But as she stepped into the elevator, the image of Room 412 pulled against the rule she lived by.
Jisung hadn’t looked anything like the boy she’d glimpsed in a stray music video on a colleague’s phone, or in the glossy poster tacked above a convenience store. There, he’d been sharp-edged confidence; bright lights, fast words, the choreography of someone built to be seen.
Here, under white hospital lights, he’d seemed almost the opposite. Shoulders drawn in, sleeve clutched between restless fingers, voice threaded with humor that didn’t quite cover the unease underneath. Human in a way she hadn’t expected.
Ayla pressed her lips together and shook her head, as though the motion could dislodge the thought. He was a patient, nothing more. She had a hundred charts to prove where her attention belonged.
The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor. She adjusted her bag, walked through the quiet lobby, and stepped out into the cool breath of night. The rain had passed, leaving the pavement slick, the streetlamps reflected in long smears of orange and white.
She drew in the damp air, let it settle her, and started toward the bus stop. Tomorrow would be another shift. Another list of names. She did not look back at the building behind her.