Chapter Text
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The hospital’s doctors’ lounge buzzed with low chatter and the scent of burnt coffee. Dr. Kim Mingyu leaned back in the worn leather armchair, a rare moment of ease tugging at his usually sharp posture. His ID badge swung lazily from the pocket of his pristine white coat, the bold letters Cardiology - Senior Consultant glinting under the light.
“Another interview request?” Seokmin asked, raising an eyebrow as he glanced at the email on Mingyu’s tablet.
Mingyu scoffed. “Fifth one this month. Some magazine wants a ‘day in the life of Seoul’s youngest top cardiologist.’ Like I’m gonna let them film me elbow-deep in someone’s chest.”
“Should’ve gone into dermatology,” Seungkwan muttered, kicking his feet up. “They never bleed, and they get better lighting.”
Laughter rippled around the room. Mingyu shook his head, grinning. “You’re all just jealous. I make heart valves look sexy.”
“You are the hospital’s favorite,” Seokmin teased. “Even the chairman’s wife asked for you by name.”
Mingyu rolled his eyes but didn't deny it. He had worked hard for this. Years of sleepless nights, endless rounds, and surgical cases that had aged him faster than time itself. But it was worth it. He was respected, admired—even envied. Everything was finally in place.
He glanced at the wall clock. 7:52 PM. “Alright, I’m off. If I don’t get street food tonight, I’m calling it a hostile work environment.”
“Text us when you're alive again,” Seungkwan called.
With a lazy salute, Mingyu grabbed his coat and slung his bag over his shoulder. The cold air outside hit like a splash of water—refreshing after the sterile warmth of the hospital. The streets buzzed with life as he crossed the lot, unlocking his car.
He never made it.
The sharp screech of tires tore through the night.
Mingyu turned just in time to see headlights rushing toward him—too fast, too close.
He couldn’t move.
The impact sent him flying, his body hitting the ground with bone-crunching force. Pain exploded through his ribs, and the side of his head cracked against the pavement. A blinding light, then darkness. Voices in the distance turned to static. Blood trickled into his eyes.
Everything was soundless.
Then—nothing.
The accident scene was a blur of flashing red and blue lights. Rain began to fall in soft droplets, turning the pavement slick and dark. Mingyu’s body lay crumpled beside his car, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him, staining his white coat a deep crimson.
Paramedic Jung Woosik dropped to his knees beside him, heart thudding as he assessed the scene. “Male, late twenties… GCS at six. Pupils unequal. Shit.”
“Chest’s not rising on the left,” his partner said urgently, pulling out a chest seal. “Ribs are shattered. I think they’ve punctured his lung—listen.”
Each gasping breath came with a wet, rattling gurgle. Blood foamed at the corner of Mingyu’s lips. His right arm bent at a sickening angle, shoulder visibly dislocated. The left side of his skull was matted with blood—likely a depressed fracture. His pulse was thready, inconsistent.
“Dr. Kim Mingyu,” Woosik muttered, recognizing the name. “Damn it. He’s one of ours.”
Sirens wailed as they loaded him into the ambulance.
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Seoul General Hospital – ER
“Trauma Code Red. Incoming male, 29. Polytrauma, suspected flail chest, open pneumothorax, cranial injury, possible intracranial bleed. ETA five minutes,” came the call over the intercom.
The ER went silent for one beat.
Then chaos exploded.
“Did they say Dr. Kim Mingyu?” someone whispered.
Nurses who’d worked under him paled. Younger residents looked at each other in disbelief.
Seokmin burst through the ER entrance, phone still clutched in his hand. “I just talked to him—he was heading home. What the hell happened?!”
Seungkwan arrived seconds later, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me it’s not him.”
Then the doors burst open.
The gurney came flying in, soaked in blood. “Unresponsive, massive trauma. We need OR now!”
“Page neurosurgery, thoracic, trauma team—everyone,” shouted the ER chief.
As Mingyu was wheeled past, Seokmin caught sight of his friend’s face—bloated, bruised, barely recognizable. A tube protruded from his chest. His head lolled slightly, a trail of blood painting the pillow beneath him.
He wasn’t supposed to look like this.
Not Mingyu.
Not the golden boy. Not the one who made everyone believe in miracles.
“He’s crashing!” a nurse yelled.
“Blood pressure’s dropping—he’s going into cardiac arrest!”
The ER doors swung shut behind the surgical team as the trauma bay filled with alarms and shouted orders.
Outside, Seokmin stood frozen, chest tight, feeling like the world had just split open.
The operating room was a storm of movement—gloved hands, blood-stained gowns, a blur of beeping monitors and tense orders.
“Left lung collapsed. Multiple rib fractures—two have punctured through the pleura.”
“Brain swelling confirmed. Subdural hematoma, possible diffuse axonal injury.”
“BP unstable—he’s circling the drain!”
Mingyu’s body lay limp beneath the surgical lights, a maze of tubes and sutures trying to hold him together. Dr. Park, head of trauma surgery, wiped sweat from her brow and leaned in over the neuro monitor.
“This isn’t just trauma,” she murmured, almost to herself. “There’s… something else here. Look at the imaging—do you see that mass?”
One of the neuro residents frowned. “That’s… a tumor?”
The CT scan showed it clearly now—a tumor deep in Mingyu’s temporal lobe, obscured before by swelling and hemorrhage. Maybe he hadn’t known. Or maybe he had, and never told anyone.
“It's pressing against critical structures,” Park whispered. “The trauma’s accelerated the swelling—we can’t operate on this here. Not with our current tech, not with how unstable he is.”
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Chairman’s Office – 3 Hours Later
Chairman Moon stood by the tall windows of his office, arms folded tightly. “He’s not going to survive another day here—not with that tumor, not with the pressure building in his brain.”
Seokmin stood near the door, face pale, eyes bloodshot. “So what do we do? Transfer him to Seoul National?”
Moon shook his head. “No. That tumor needs neuro-navigation, deep brain mapping—precision we don’t have here. I’ve already called Johns Hopkins in the U.S. They’ve agreed to accept him.”
Seokmin’s eyes widened. “We’re sending him to America?”
“There’s no time to debate. He’s in a coma. If the swelling worsens, it’s over. I’m pulling every string we have to get him airlifted with a full trauma team.”
Outside the glass walls of the hospital, the city pulsed with oblivious life. Inside, the heart of their brightest star was flickering, fading.
“Make the arrangements,” the chairman said quietly. “Dr. Kim Mingyu saved enough lives here. It’s time we try to save his.”
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The whir of the helicopter rotors vibrated through the cold night air as the stretcher was wheeled toward the landing pad. Paramedics shouted over the noise, double-checking every line and monitor strapped to Mingyu’s fragile, broken body.
His friends stood a short distance away, wind whipping their coats, tension still carved into their faces.
Seokmin’s eyes were locked on the stretcher. “I still can’t believe this is happening. One minute he was joking with us, and now…”
“He’s still breathing,” Seungkwan said quietly. “And the chairman… he wouldn’t send him unless there was a real shot.”
Seokmin nodded, swallowing hard. “He said they’ve arranged a direct medical flight to Los Angeles. An elite team’s already on standby there. But—”
“But what?” Seungkwan pressed.
“No one knows the surgeon’s name. Just that it’s someone so high-profile, so insanely skilled, the hospital’s keeping it quiet for security. That this neurosurgeon doesn’t even take patients anymore unless it’s a case that challenges medicine itself.”
Seungkwan’s eyes widened. “You mean… someone like that agreed to take Mingyu?”
“They said the moment they saw his brain scans and the severity of the trauma… they said yes without hesitation.”
They both went quiet, watching the helicopter rise, carrying their friend into the unknown.
“Whoever this person is,” Seungkwan said, voice trembling, “they’re Mingyu’s last hope.”
The blades roared louder, and the sky swallowed the aircraft whole.
Back on the ground, everyone who loved him waited—hearts half-broken, half-hoping—clinging to the one thing they still had left.
Faith.
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