Chapter 34

“Ah.”

Jaewon stared into space, completely lost for words.

Never in his life did he think he would hear Kang-hyuk call him rude.

Among his peers, he had always been considered one of the more warmhearted ones.

The shock was beyond comprehension.

‘Does this guy even have the right to call someone rude? He literally just threatened Professor Kim with a scalpel.’

Jaewon glanced at the scalpel Kang-hyuk had held earlier.

Even from a distance, it looked razor-sharp.

Through the surgical loupes, it seemed like it could cut through anything.

‘And yet he has the nerve to talk about manners while holding something like that.’

It was frustrating, but he couldn’t dwell on it for long.

Kang-hyuk stepped in front of him, blocking his view, his tone confrontational.

“What are you staring at, punk?”

“N-no, nothing.”

“You sound like you’ve got a problem.”

“No way. How could I ever…”

“Right? After all, complaining about your mentor would make you really rude.”

“…Yes, of course.”

Jaewon nodded, mentally adding another question to the growing list he would ask Kang-hyuk’s teacher if he ever met them.

Even as they spoke, their hands never stopped moving.

Kang-hyuk had always been able to perform multiple tasks at once.

Jaewon, on the other hand, had only recently gained the ability to suture while talking.

Regardless, his skills were improving at an astonishing rate.

“Okay, sutures are done.”

Kang-hyuk dropped the suturing instrument onto the tray and turned around.

He spotted Sun-woong, who had long since stopped watching the surgery and was now fully focused on adjusting the dialysis machine.

“Professor Kim.”

Sun-woong was so immersed in his task that he only realized Kang-hyuk was addressing him after hearing his name.

“Yes?”

“Now that the transplant is complete, please update the ICU on the patient’s condition.”

“Ah, right. Of course.”

“I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but… make sure infection control is strict.”

Every patient in the ICU required strict infection control.

However, as everyone knew, South Korea’s healthcare system was notoriously underfunded when it came to ICU care.

Hospitals had adapted by prioritizing strict infection control only for high-risk patients—such as bone marrow transplant recipients, organ transplant patients, and those with immune deficiencies like HIV.

These patients were assigned private ICU rooms with heavily restricted access.

As a nephrology professor, Sun-woong had treated countless such patients.

He nodded without hesitation.

“Of course.”

“I’ll continue monitoring the transplant site for any complications.”

“Thank you.”

In most collaborative surgeries—where one department performed a procedure on another department’s patient—surgeons tended to prioritize their own department’s cases over others.

But somehow, Sun-woong felt certain that Kang-hyuk wouldn’t be like that.

He had no solid evidence, just a gut feeling.

And sometimes, an experienced physician’s instincts were more reliable than any data.

Click.

Leaving Sun-woong’s gratitude behind, Kang-hyuk pushed open the operating room doors.

He glanced into the adjacent room, where the patient’s heart and lungs were now being removed.

The final stage of organ harvesting was in progress.

Click.

Without hesitation, Kang-hyuk stepped inside.

Naturally, Jaewon followed.

After an all-nighter and a completed surgery, exhaustion weighed on him heavily.

But how could he show fatigue when his mentor wasn’t even yawning?

He had to hold on.

Of course, human biology didn’t always cooperate with sheer willpower.

“Uhhhhh.”

Which was why, instead of yawning, he let out a strange groan.

Fortunately, neither Kang-hyuk nor the cardiothoracic surgeon seemed to care.

“How’s it going?”

Kang-hyuk addressed the lead surgeon, who was carefully placing the removed heart and lungs into separate preservation containers.

It was uncommon for a professor to personally handle an organ retrieval surgery.

Cardiothoracic surgery was no exception, so the lead surgeon here was a fellow.

“Ah, yes. We’re just finishing up.”

“I see. So, it’s all done now.”

Kang-hyuk looked down at the patient’s hollowed-out [thoracic] and [abdominal cavities].
(T/N: The thoracic cavity houses the heart and lungs, while the abdominal cavity contains organs like the liver, kidneys, and intestines.)

He turned around and saw a group of interns waiting to begin the closure procedure.

A body couldn’t be returned to the family in such a state.

That would be an insult—both to the deceased and to the living.

Standard practice dictated that the body be carefully sutured and restored to a more natural appearance.

Beep.

An alarm sounded from the anesthesia monitor.

With no heartbeat and no oxygen saturation left to measure, the alert was inevitable.

Click.

The anesthesiology professor switched off the alarm, plunging the operating room into silence.

No matter how often doctors encountered death, it was something they could never truly become desensitized to.

Nor should they.

“Alright, let’s have a moment of silence.”

Kang-hyuk was the first to speak.

Jaewon looked at him in disbelief—hadn’t they already done this earlier?

Kang-hyuk immediately shook his head and smacked the back of Jaewon’s head.

“Punk, that was just a brief one. We need to do this properly.”

“Ah… right. That was my mistake.”

“Yeah, so learn from me. You’ve still got a long way to go in terms of character.”

“…Yes, Professor.”

Jaewon couldn’t help but wonder if Kang-hyuk was really the one who should be lecturing about character.

But at the same time, he had to admit—Kang-hyuk was a true doctor.

He focused on saving lives, nothing else.

Even if his intensity sometimes caused trouble for the medical staff around him.

“Hmm.”

After nearly five minutes of silent tribute, Kang-hyuk lifted his head.

That was when he noticed someone unfamiliar in the room.

The person must have entered during the moment of silence.

“Professor Baek.”

The voice, however, was familiar.

“Oh, it’s the coordinator.”

“Yes. The donation process is complete, so I’m here to assist with funeral arrangements.”

“Good. That’s how it should be.”

South Korea had numerous organ donation organizations.

The coordinator standing before them was from the Korean Organ and Tissue Donation Institute—an organization operating under the Korea Disease Control and Prevention Agency (KDCA).

Since it was a government-affiliated body, it was known for upholding the highest standards of respect for organ donors.

“But… the family members are all hospitalized, aren’t they?”

Kang-hyuk nodded, noticing the coordinator’s troubled expression.

“That’s right. The other two didn’t make it.”

“That’s what concerns me… I don’t know how to proceed with the funeral. From what I understand, the two surviving family members are in critical condition as well.”

No one understood that better than Kang-hyuk.

He had been involved in their treatment from the moment they were brought in.

Had they gone to any other hospital, both of them would likely be dead by now.

“What are you trying to say?”

“There aren’t any specific guidelines for a situation like this. Normally, we provide financial assistance to the family and send staff to help with the funeral arrangements, but…”

There was no family to receive those benefits.

Right now, only the deceased remained, lying alone in the operating room.

If this had been an unclaimed body, the government would have arranged a simplified funeral.

But this wasn’t an unclaimed case—the deceased had family, yet there was no one available to act on their behalf.

“Then just place them in the mortuary for now.”

Kang-hyuk spoke as if it were the most obvious solution.

But for the coordinator, it wasn’t that simple.

“Well… there’s a cost for that, and there are no provisions in the regulations to cover it.”

“Oh, right. You’re a government employee. I almost forgot.”

“I’d have to get approval from higher-ups, but I can’t leave things as they are in the meantime. That’s why I’m struggling with this.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Lee Ki-young and Lee Hye-young will survive. I’ll make sure of it.”

Kang-hyuk’s voice was firm, leaving no room for doubt.

Everyone in the operating room turned to look at him.

He met their gazes with unwavering confidence and continued.

“So, just send the deceased to the mortuary. If covering the costs is too complicated, bill me. Either way, it won’t be long before Lee Ki-young and Lee Hye-young wake up.”

“Professor… this isn’t something you should be paying for personally.”

“Then who else is going to cover it?”

“Well…”

The coordinator clenched their teeth, frustrated by their inability to confidently say, ‘We’ll take care of it.’

At the same time, a sense of determination sparked within them.

How could a single doctor take responsibility when an entire government institution was hesitating?

“We’ll proceed with billing you for now. But I promise—I’ll make sure our organization handles all the costs in the end.”

“You don’t need to act so determined about it.”

“No, this is our responsibility. We’ll take care of it.”

“Alright then. Do whatever you need to do.”

Kang-hyuk gave the coordinator a passing glance, as if he truly didn’t care, and then turned to Jaewon, patting him on the shoulder.

“Anus, let’s go get some sleep.”

“Ah… Yes, Professor.”

Jaewon let out a deep sigh of relief.

He had half-expected Kang-hyuk to drag him somewhere else instead.

—

The place they arrived at was a tiny on-call room tucked away in one corner of the Severe Trauma Center.

It contained nothing but a bunk bed, four cabinets, and a worn-out leather couch.

One look was enough to understand how little space trauma surgeons were given in the hospital hierarchy.

‘It’s 7:40 AM… That gives me about an hour to sleep.’

Jaewon glanced at the clock before climbing into the top bunk.

Creaaak.

The bed groaned loudly with every movement—just as worn as the couch.

But Jaewon wasn’t worried about waking Kang-hyuk or making him angry.

Kang-hyuk was the type of person who could sleep through anything when he had the chance.

‘Trauma surgery is all about sleeping whenever you can and eating whenever you get the chance.’

At first, Jaewon had wondered if that was something you could learn.

But after following Kang-hyuk’s brutal schedule for so long, he had no choice but to adapt.

—

“Hey, wake up.”

It felt like he had just closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, it was already 8:40 AM.

Kang-hyuk was fully dressed in a shirt and tie.

“How do you manage to wake up later than me every time?”

“S-sorry…”

“What’s there to be sorry about? We don’t get that many outpatients anyway. Rest when you can. After lunch, we’ll check on the ICU patients together. You need to learn how to handle prescriptions.”

“Ah, yes…”

Every hospital had slight variations in its schedule, but most university hospital outpatient clinics ran from 9 AM to 12 PM.

The trauma surgery department was no different.

About ten minutes before 9 AM, Kang-hyuk slid into the outpatient clinic.

He turned to the medical assistant waiting inside.

“How many patients do we have today?”

“Only two scheduled appointments, Professor.”