The first thing Kim Hana learned as a junior resident at Seoul Medical University Hospital was that coffee doesn't care about your nerves. It will spill all the same.
Especially when you're already late.
Clutching her half-empty paper cup in one hand and dragging a rolling suitcase with the other, Hana burst through the hospital's grand front entrance, cheeks flushed, hair frizzing slightly under the weight of rushed humidity.
"Why is this place the size of an airport?" she muttered to herself.
Her phone buzzed against her shoulder, still wedged between her neck and cheek. The voice on the other end belonged to Minji—her best friend, roommate, and current reason for not losing her mind.
"If I die today," Hana whispered dramatically, "you can have my sheet masks."
"You're not dying," Minji said, utterly unfazed. "You're just reporting to your first rotation. Under a man known as the Ice Surgeon. What's the worst that could happen?"
Hana didn't have time to list all the ways.
She ended the call with a grunt, shoved her phone into her coat pocket, and raced toward the elevator—only to be met with a blinking "Out of Order" sign taped to the door. Of course.
By the time she made it to the residents' lounge, her coffee had painted her sleeve, and her nerves were shot.
---
Inside, the room buzzed with tension. Residents chatted in low voices, adjusting badges, flipping through notes. Hana slumped into the nearest chair, pulled out her phone, and recorded a voice note.
> "Day one. I repeat, day *one* and I've already ruined my only decent coat. My attending is literally Satan in a lab coat. Dr. Kang Something? I looked him up. He's got three awards, two degrees, and zero smiles. His eyebrows alone could kill someone. Please send prayers. Or bubble tea."
Satisfied with her theatrical rant, she hit send.
Then paused.
Her eyes slowly widened.
"Oh no," she breathed.
She had not sent it to Minji.
No. No. No.
There it was—bold, unrelenting:
**✔ Sent to: Dr. Kang Joonhyuk**
---
Dr. Kang Joonhyuk had arrived precisely eight minutes earlier than scheduled. He always did. Precision was part of his identity, as much as his unchanging poker face and that absurdly perfect posture.
He entered the conference room silently, his presence cooling the room like someone had just turned up the air-conditioning. Chairs scraped. Residents stood. No one dared speak.
"Kim Hana," he said, without even looking up from the tablet in his hand.
Hana stiffened like a cat caught chewing wires.
"Yes, s-sir?"
"You'll present the case in Room 302 today."
"But I—" She hadn't even *been* to Room 302 yet.
"You seem to have strong opinions. Let's test your clinical accuracy."
He looked up at her then, eyes like polished obsidian. Calm. Distant. A faint arch of a brow—just enough for Hana to mentally kick herself.
This was it. She had signed her own medical death certificate.
---
Lunch was a blur of embarrassment and indigestion.
Hana sat on the rooftop terrace beside Minji, stabbing her bibimbap with unnecessary aggression.
"He *heard* it," Hana hissed, barely chewing. "He's plotting my murder in high-definition."
Minji shrugged and spooned more soup into her mouth. "You called his eyebrows lethal. I mean. Accurate."
"This is not funny!"
"It is. A little."
Hana groaned. "This is why you're single."
"I'm single because men can't handle me. Not the same."
---
Later that afternoon, the hospital jolted into emergency mode. Code Blue: Pediatrics.
A six-year-old boy was crashing in Room 312. Nurses shouted. Monitors blared. Interns panicked.
And then, Hana moved.
"Get a crash cart," she called out, voice sharper than even she expected. "He's allergic to penicillin—check his chart! We need oxygen, now!"
Her hands trembled slightly, but her movements didn't falter. Her heart raced as she began compressions, adrenaline taking over instinct.
The boy gasped.
Nurses exhaled in relief. One patted her back with a shaky hand.
When she finally looked up, Dr. Kang Joonhyuk was there.
Watching.
Not correcting her. Not speaking.
Just observing her, a slight tilt in his head, as if seeing something he hadn't expected.
---
By the end of her shift, Hana was half-human, half-corpse. She slumped onto the intern lounge couch, the cushion swallowing her whole.
A soft clink interrupted her collapse.
"Survived your first shift?" a voice asked.
She looked up.
Dr. Yoo Seojin, orthopedic surgeon, sunshine incarnate, and her senior from med school, held out a can of coffee.
"Barely," Hana muttered.
"You were impressive."
Hana blinked. "Were you there?"
He shrugged. "Word travels."
They clinked cans. Hana smiled, the first real one all day.
She didn't see the figure passing the door—a tall, silent shadow pausing for just a moment.
Dr. Kang Joonhyuk glanced inside. His jaw clenched ever so slightly.
---
That night, in a penthouse apartment overlooking the Han River, Joonhyuk sat before a blank canvas.
He hadn't painted in weeks.
Yet his fingers moved.
A sketch formed—messy ponytail. Smudged mascara. Fierce eyes.
He didn't realize he was smiling.
---
Meanwhile, Hana lay in bed under too many blankets, staring at her phone with the existential regret of a thousand medical errors.
Her screen lit up.
> **New Notification: Dr. Kang Joonhyuk viewed your profile.**
She bolted upright. "WHAT?!"
---
**End of Episode 1**
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