Chapter 137

‘The corridor is cleared, and all emergency protocols are prepped.’

Tension threaded Oh Ga-on’s voice.

By the time Do-hyeop’s call reached the hospital, Oh Ga-on was already waiting on the rooftop helipad beside a gurney.

The medevac carrying Seoul, found unconscious at home, was converging on the hospital at the same time. His transport was granted the rooftop pad nearest the main ward; the Phantom was diverted to the rear grounds. Seoul’s flight took priority, forcing Do-hyeop’s aircraft to circle for nearly five minutes before it could land.

‘The patient is experiencing reduced consciousness, so we are proceeding to surgery immediately.’

Do-hyeop never caught so much as a glimpse of Seoul. He sprinted through the hospital’s locked-down, deserted corridors only to reach the sealed doors of the operating theater.

He drove his knuckles against his temple. He could not tell whether the dampness beneath his fingers was cold sweat or the icy terror clawing up his throat.

Do-hyeop stood rigid before the sign, rooted to the floor as though the concrete had grown around his feet. Well aware of how little patience he possessed, the surgeon emerged in less than ten minutes.

‘Geum Seoul comes first.’

Do-hyeop had never needed a child. He had never needed a family. He needed Seoul.

When choosing the hospital, he had reserved every inpatient suite in advance. Compared with the value he placed on Seoul’s life, the expense was meaningless.

‘There is no second choice.’

The warning he had given the medical staff carried enough violence to make it sound like a promise.

‘We are well aware.’

Oh Ga-on had answered without hesitation. When Do-hyeop first began considering where to admit Seoul, premier hospitals across the capital had scrambled for the case the moment word leaked. This facility had one decisive advantage. Beyond its cutting-edge equipment, Oh Ga-on had proposed a protocol from the outset tailored to Do-hyeop’s one nonnegotiable demand: Seoul came before the child, no matter what. And knowing that Do-hyeop would never forgive a second failure, Oh Ga-on had taken responsibility with desperate seriousness.

The corridor outside surgery remained completely deserted. Do-hyeop stood alone at the boundary no unauthorized person was permitted to cross, holding himself still for hours.

Authorized personnel. He alone was Seoul’s legal guardian. No one on earth belonged more intimately to Seoul’s life than he did. Yet one door reduced that fact to nothing. He could not cross it, could not see Seoul’s face, could not even know what expression he wore while unconscious. Rationally, he understood the necessity. His body understood nothing. Rage curdled into a hard knot in his gut.

Eeeeeee.

A hollow ringing pulsed through his ears, but he did not move. More frightening than the migraine or the sluggish beat of his heart was the weight of absolute helplessness. It climbed from the soles of his feet to his shoulders and tightened around his throat.

Seoul had been scheduled for admission only a few days later. Because even that date was unusually early, Do-hyeop had compressed as much work as possible into the days before it.

He had done it so that once Seoul entered the hospital, he would never have to leave his side. Difficult cases, unstable operations, lingering loose ends—anything that might drag him away had to be finished first.

And that brief window had betrayed him: only a few hours with Seoul left alone.

Guilt and self-reproach thrashed inside Do-hyeop like something alive. He had been trained in disciplines ordinary people would never encounter, yet no one had ever taught him what to do with feelings like these.

Seoul had taught him every emotion he had once lacked, one by one: common sense, affection, mercy. Seoul was both answer and cipher. When Do-hyeop buried his face in his neck, felt the warmth of his skin, and breathed in the clean green scent of his pheromones, the useless noise inside him always went quiet.

Now his arms were empty. The one person who drove him forward and kept him in check was beyond reach. For the first time in his life, Do-hyeop could devise no strategy, build no contingency. Beneath the red glow of the sign, all he could do was wait for Seoul to come back through that door and into his arms.

‘Are… are you done? With your important work.’

In memory, Seoul was still damp and warm, nudging a radio antenna with a branch. Pale, gentle, comforting—that was the essence of him in Do-hyeop’s mind. Perhaps that was why he had chosen the prenatal name Taeyang. Sun. It suited Seoul more than anyone.

“……”

Do-hyeop’s mind usually ran on dense, interlocking calculations. Somehow, now, God had found room inside it. He discovered that atheism was useless when the person he loved lay beyond a door he could not open. People reached for God because hope was sometimes all that remained. Hope—the very thing he had once mocked as a coward’s substitute for competence—had sunk its teeth into his throat.

He was ready to bargain on his knees. Money, authority, power, years off his own life—God could take all of it. Do-hyeop fixed his dark, unblinking gaze on the door that had swallowed Seoul.

Clunk.

He stood there drying out from the inside, rigid as a tree abandoned in a drought. Nearly five hours later, the operating-room doors finally slid open and Oh Ga-on stepped through.

“Both Seoul-ssi and the child are safe. He has extensive tests scheduled today, so we will monitor him in the intensive care unit first. You should be able to see him in a standard room by tomorrow. I came out to give you this news first, and I will meet with you in about an hour to provide a detailed debrief.”

Oh Ga-on studied Do-hyeop’s face. Receiving only a silent nod, he turned back toward the operating room.

“……”

Rustle.

Oh Ga-on had never seen Do-hyeop like this. The man carried absolute confidence into every circumstance, and intimidation came so naturally to him that even casual words often sounded like sharpened threats.

Yet now he said nothing. He looked once toward the open operating room, once at Oh Ga-on, then quietly covered his mouth with one hand. His face revealed almost nothing, but Oh Ga-on recognized the gesture for what it was: naked anxiety.

Even after Oh Ga-on disappeared inside again and every surgical light went dark, Do-hyeop remained motionless. Ten full minutes passed before he finally moved toward the intensive care unit.

The ICU. Nothing changed there.

Again.

Do-hyeop looked down at his shoes and let out a dry, humorless laugh. Another sign. Another striped boundary forbidding him even half a step farther. The only path through it belonged to Seoul, fighting his own battle beyond the door.

Seoul was strong. Do-hyeop knew he was stronger than himself. Physically, perhaps not. In every way that mattered, Seoul stood far above him.

Then walk out on your own strength. Do-hyeop muttered the command under his breath. Break every boundary drawn by people who have no claim on you and come straight back to me—your only authorized guardian. He lifted cold eyes toward the slit of light beneath the ICU door. He could have hung his life from that thin line. The nightmare would end only when Seoul was safely back in his arms.

He had no idea how long he stood there before Oh Ga-on entered his vision again.

‘The baby arrived quickly, but is completely healthy…’

The baby would continue developing in an incubator. Oh Ga-on explained the protocol at length, but Do-hyeop asked only one question: could he enter the ICU and see Seoul? When the answer was no—not until tomorrow—his mouth closed again.

He remained upright, yet felt as though he were lying flat on black synthetic earth. His throat tightened until each breath seemed forced through a straw.

Another difference from the coffin of his sixteenth year: he knew with absolute certainty that this time he could not endure even three days.

Had he once mocked Seoul’s market value as temporary? His own weakness was brutally selective. For a mission, he could play dead in filth for a week. Waiting half a day beside an injured Seoul was torture. With fingers gone cold, all he could do was press at his temples and endure the migraine hammering through his skull.

The need to hold Seoul was so violent it felt fatal. His breath caught; his lungs seemed crushed. The only person capable of ending this suspended eternity lay just beyond the boundary at his feet. Do-hyeop dragged in air like a fish stranded on land.

Snap.

In reality, it was only the following day when he was finally released from that hated red sign.

‘Seoul-ssi will be moved shortly. We are transferring him to a standard room.’

Time seemed to snap back to normal speed as Oh Ga-on appeared before him again. Only then did Do-hyeop realize how many hours had vanished. There was not a single window outside the ICU doors by which to measure them.

Rumble.

At last, Do-hyeop saw Seoul.

He had watched countless people die and had passed sentence on death with his own hands, but never had he understood the shape of a death sentence so vividly. Seoul lay pale and motionless on the gurney, and Do-hyeop felt as though the sentence had been pronounced on him. He reached for Seoul’s chilled wrist and held it with painstaking care.

‘Seoul-ssi is currently sleeping.’

Once they reached the room, transferring Seoul into the hospital bed fell naturally to Do-hyeop. As he settled him against the mattress and drew the blanket up, Oh Ga-on continued his explanation.

‘His condition and vitals are entirely stable. As you know, sleep is the primary mechanism through which Seoul-ssi’s body recovers. You will only need to wait a few hours until he wakes naturally on his own.’

Do-hyeop said nothing. His gaze returned to his sleeping lover, who looked far too much like a corpse.

The suffocating smell of wet earth pressed over him. No such odor existed in the hospital. It was a phantom, and he knew it.

The trauma he had thought love had finally buried rose again and closed around him with effortless cruelty.

A day and a half of fearing Seoul might be harmed had been hell. And yet Seoul had once endured four full days of worse—without even knowing whether Do-hyeop was alive beneath the rubble.

“Open your eyes the second it turns light.”

You know my fucking patience is nothing like yours, Do-hyeop whispered, pressing his mouth to the back of Seoul’s cold hand.