24ES | Chapter 4.1

“Sunbae! Ra Yoon, the 5-year-old who had surgery for a choledochal cyst three days ago, is having trouble breathing and seems completely drained of energy!”

“What? Fever? Abdominal tenderness? Any vomiting?”

“No, none of those.”

“Alright, then let’s get a chest X-ray done immediately. I’ll head over there right away. Got it?”

“Yes, sunbae!”

Hanging up the call from Park Joohyuk, the pediatric surgery resident, Yesung quickly wrapped up what he was doing and rushed to the pediatric ward.

“Sunbae!”

“D-Doctor! You said the surgery went well… but why is Ra Yoon, our little Ra Yoon, suddenly like this…!”

As soon as he entered the room, Yesung was greeted by the anxious resident Park Joohyuk and a panicked parent.

“Ma’am, it’s likely nothing serious. Let me take a look first.”

Calming the guardian, Yesung pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and warmed the headpiece with his hands and breath. Sliding his hand beneath the hospital gown, he began checking the child’s lungs. The right lung was fine, but the sound from the left lung was slightly faint.

Finishing the auscultation, Yesung straightened up and signaled to Joohyuk with his eyes.

“Do we have the X-ray results?”

“…Yes.”

“Atelectasis?”

Joohyuk nodded in response to Yesung’s question. Confirming this, Yesung turned back to the parent.

“Ma’am, after the surgery, we gave you a breathing support device for Ra Yoon to use regularly. Has she been using it?”

“A… no. She really didn’t want to, so… we only tried it for the first time yesterday…”

“And did she use it properly even that one time?”

“No… not really. She threw it away shortly after starting…”

Seeing the guardian squirm under his relentless questioning, Yesung swallowed a sigh. He ruffled his hair, which he couldn’t even remember brushing back, and spoke.

“Based on the symptoms you described, I suspected atelectasis and ordered the X-ray. The results confirmed it. This is one of the complications we mentioned could occur post-surgery. It’s not severe, but it is atelectasis.”

“Atelectasis?”

“Yes. Thankfully, it’s not serious. If you tap her back to induce coughing and ensure she uses the breathing support device regularly, she’ll recover quickly.”

“Ah…”

Hearing it wasn’t serious, the guardian, who had been on edge, seemed to relax, her knees giving way as she sank into a chair.

“There’s no need to worry too much, ma’am. Atelectasis is a common complication, especially in pediatric surgeries, and if managed properly, it resolves quickly. But it’s critical that Ra Yoon uses the breathing support device regularly. Dr. Park here will check on her usage, and even if she dislikes it, this is far better than her suffering like this. Understood?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll make sure of it. Thank you, Doctor.”

The guardian, clutching the bed rail, stood up and bowed repeatedly, tears brimming in her eyes as she realized her child’s condition partly resulted from her negligence.

Packing up his stethoscope, Yesung gestured to Joohyuk.

“We’ll take our leave now.”

“Yes, sunbae.”

Leaving the room with the guardian following behind to see them off, Yesung and Joohyuk headed back to the central station of the pediatric ward.

“If this develops into pneumonia, it’ll be a huge problem. Keep a close eye on her condition, Joohyuk. I’ll drop by for unannounced checks. If there’s any issue, call me immediately.”

“Yes, sunbae. I’ll keep a close watch.”

Nodding, Joohyuk headed into the station to organize the charts. Yesung plopped down on a nearby chair, visibly exhausted. Sensing this, Joohyuk gave him a puzzled look.

“Sunbae, when was the last time you slept?”

“Me? Hmm… no idea.”

He genuinely couldn’t recall the last time he had properly rested. His dazed response caused Joohyuk to stop typing on the keyboard and examine Yesung more closely.

“I know sleeplessness is part of the job, but you look worse than usual. Are you okay? You look like someone who hasn’t slept in a week.”

Joohyuk’s spot-on observation made Yesung stifle a sigh. It was true; he hadn’t been able to maintain his composure lately.

Too much was going on. Ever since he bumped into Jung Hageon in the emergency room and fled, Yesung had been avoiding him like the plague. He knew exactly what Hageon wanted to talk about, and he wasn’t ready for it.

But it was strange—beyond strange. Ever since that encounter, he had been running into Hageon everywhere. PICU, NICU, the emergency room, the pediatric ward—Hageon seemed to appear at every turn. It was absurd.

Rubbing his face roughly, Yesung murmured to Joohyuk.

“Joohyuk.”

“Yes, sunbae?”

“Is cardiothoracic surgery… not busy these days?”

Joohyuk, puzzled by the odd question, furrowed his brows.

The look on Joohyuk’s face gave Yesung the answer he needed, even without words.

“…Right. Of course, they’re busy. They have to be.”

Letting out another suppressed sigh, Yesung leaned back in his chair and tilted his head, accidentally catching the glare of the fluorescent lights above. He reflexively shut his eyes tight and turned his face toward Joohyuk.

“Unless… have their surgery schedules drastically decreased recently?”

The thought seemed absurd, but he had to ask. Joohyuk shook his head firmly.

“No way. Absolutely not.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Joohyuk’s confident denial drew a faint, tired smile from Yesung. There was no way Hageon could have more free time than any other cardiothoracic surgeon.

Or was there? Jung Hageon… what on earth is going on with you?

Before he could dwell further, his call phone buzzed. OBGYN was calling.

“Yes, this is Han Yesung.”

“Hello, Doctor! This is Hong Naeun, an OBGYN resident. Can you come right away? We have a newborn from a recent delivery with suspected imperforate anus. We need you to take a look.”

Barely five minutes into resting, Yesung stood up, signaling to Joohyuk to follow.

“On my way.”

Work-life balance? What balance? In fields like theirs, the term might as well be a joke.

Dragging Joohyuk along, Yesung headed quickly to the obstetrics department.

***

“Whew.”

Finally, after running back and forth through the hospital without a moment to breathe, Yesung had found a small window of time to rest.

“Since Dr. Seol is here, why don’t you take a break and get some sleep for an hour or two?”

Thanks to the thoughtful suggestion from Professor Jin, the head of pediatric surgery, Yesung found himself at the on-call room closest to the emergency room. When he opened the door, the room was miraculously empty.

“No one’s here. Nice, it’s quiet.”

There was no need to put on a facade, no need to waste energy dealing with emotions. Yesung didn’t have a grand reason for masking his true self and acting as people expected him to. It was simply easier that way. Playing along with what others wanted usually worked to his advantage.

Yesung was an orphan—not always, but he became one after losing his parents in an accident as a child. With no relatives willing to take him in, he was sent to an orphanage. It was there that he learned a life principle that he still lived by:

Adults love “well-behaved kids with pretty faces.” And it wasn’t just adults. His peers weren’t much different.

Once he understood this, Yesung began to leverage what others often called his “handsome features.” After all, apart from his looks, he had nothing else to rely on in the cutthroat world. Besides, he realized just how powerful that weapon could be.

Society would describe him as a “cold beauty,” someone whose aloofness created a wall. Yet even a faint smile from him would flip the narrative instantly. People found him likable, and his gentle demeanor won hearts with ease.

On top of that, being a “studious orphan with good grades” softened even the sharpest criticisms. While some might talk behind his back, no one dared insult him to his face. Around this time, Yesung mastered the art of subtly manipulating people with the goodwill he had earned.

He blended into society, gaining influence while avoiding the pitfall of becoming someone who anxiously sought validation. It was easy to control others with a few smiles and carefully placed gestures. For example, in school, people would panic at the thought of losing access to his well-written notes or study guides.

They didn’t realize how pathetic they looked, desperately clinging to his favor.

“I’m exhausted…”

Yesung slumped into a chair near a desk, too tired to walk further to the bed at the back of the room. Everything felt like too much effort. Maintaining relationships was rewarding but draining. It wasn’t the kids but the so-called adults who wore him out the most.

Before coming here, he had to deal with a parent grabbing him by the collar.

“Hey, do you know who I am?! My uncle’s second cousin’s nephew knows the hospital director! And you’re telling me to wait? My kid should be treated right now!”

A second cousin’s nephew? Practically a stranger. Yet these kinds of parents were everywhere, always singing the same tune.

When a security guard rushed in to pull the parent off him, Yesung attended to the child—only to discover a minor paper cut about 0.3 cm deep.

“This should be fine with just some disinfectant,” he had said.

The parent, satisfied with getting their way, left the ER without even a word of thanks. Incidents like this were all too common, leaving Yesung’s ears ringing and his head spinning.

“Residency was already hard enough…” he muttered, covering his eyes with his arm.

Being a fellow was somehow even harder. He’d thought earning his specialist license might ease the burden, but pediatric surgeons were in short supply—less than 50 nationwide. Hanguk University Hospital was relatively fortunate, with five pediatric surgeons, including Yesung.