The next forty-five minutes devolved into a systematic medical gauntlet.
Dr. Lee, backed by two unfazed clinic nurses, put us through the paces of a full diagnostic battery. There were blood draws, chest X-rays, throat swabs, blood pressure cuffs, and neurological reflex tests where a tiny rubber hammer bounced off my kneecap.
The highlight of the entire ordeal came when Dr. Lee casually pulled out a stack of gastroenterology intake forms, prompting Ha-neul to launch into a high-octane, desperate negotiation.
"Dad! Absolutely not!" Ha-neul practically shrieked, clutching her clipboard like a shield. "We came here for a fever and a cough, not a full endoscopic audit! Skip the colonoscopy or I am calling Mom right now!"
Dr. Lee let out a hearty laugh, finally relenting and waving the forms away.
"Fine, fine. But you're both taking your prescribed vitamins and staying hydrated."
After swallowing two heavy blue pills Dr. Lee provided alongside a warm cup of water, the feverish pounding behind my eyes began to recede into a dull, manageable buzz. Whether it was the fever reducers or Ha-neul's initial home remedy kicking in, I actually felt human again.
Since Ha-neul still had to complete her lingering cardiovascular scans, Dr. Lee clipped a silver VIP staff badge onto my jacket collar.
"Take a stroll around the upper floors, San-gun," Dr. Lee offered with a warm smile. "The architecture on the fifth floor has a nice garden atrium if you want some fresh air. Just keep your badge visible."
I took the service elevator up, stepping out to explore the five-story medical complex.
The first three floors were bright, bustling, and filled with modern diagnostic equipment, white marble tiles, and the gentle chime of patient paging systems. But as I wandered further toward the eastern perimeter of the fourth floor, the vibrant atmosphere began to thin out.
I clipped my VIP pass against a set of heavy, frosted double doors marked [RESTRICTED RECOVERY WING].
The electronic lock beeped, releasing a deep hydraulic seal.
As the doors swung open, the bright, sterile world vanished. The wing ahead looked like something ripped straight out of a low-budget Korean horror movie. The floor tiles shifted from polished white marble to dark, sound-dampening grey vinyl. The lighting was dangerously dim, yellowed fluorescent tubes buzzing softly in the drop ceiling. The air was colder, smelling heavily of ozone and undisturbed silence.
I shuffled down the narrow hallway, my sneakers making almost no sound against the floor.
On either side of the corridor, heavy, solid-wood doors were lined with brass paper-holders containing patient names typed on small index cards. Most were empty or listed senior corporate VIPs resting after specialized procedures.
I kept walking, drawn forward by a strange, magnetic curiosity.
The wing extended deep into the building's layout, eventually narrowing into a single corridor that terminated near an emergency exit sign, where a sharp turn led to the stairwell heading up toward the roof.
At the absolute end of the hall, there was only one room.
Room 409
I stopped outside the final door.
My eyes fell on the small paper blank slipped into the brass frame beside the handle.
Typed in crisp, dark Korean hangul was a single name:
박진우 (Park Jin-woo)
I stared at the paper for three long seconds, my pulse giving a sudden, heavy thud against my ribs.
'Park Jin-woo...'
I shouldn't have been entirely surprised.
I leaned in closer, lifting my hand to shadow my eyes as I tried to peer through the small, reinforced glass window built into the upper panel of the door.
Inside, the room was shrouded in pitch-black darkness. There was no hum of active heart monitors, no flickering television screen, and no movement. Just an impenetrable, silent void.
'Is he actually in there right now?' I thought, my mind flashing back to Jin-hyun's heavy words from last night: "Because Jin-woo has just shown signs of waking up."
"Young man..."
A cold, dry voice suddenly rasped from the shadows directly behind my right shoulder.
"...how can I help you?"