The fluorescent lights of Seoul Baek-eun Hospital's corridors hummed softly as Yoon Mu-shin made his way toward the General Ward. Despite the late hour, the hospital remained alive with activity—the rhythm different from the daytime chaos but no less purposeful. Night shift nurses moved between rooms with quiet efficiency, the occasional announcement over the PA system breaking the relative calm.
Mu-shin's body ached with fatigue. His first day as an intern had been extraordinary by any standard—thrown into a mass casualty event, treating dozens of patients, and somehow managing to position himself in the hospital's internal politics. Yet despite his exhaustion, he couldn't bring himself to rest without checking on the patients he'd treated earlier.
In his previous life as a soldier, he'd learned the importance of follow-through. A mission wasn't complete until every team member was accounted for and safely back at base. Now, his patients were his responsibility, and he wouldn't consider his day complete until he'd ensured their well-being.
The General Ward occupied the third floor of the hospital's east wing. As Mu-shin pushed through the double doors, he was greeted by a different atmosphere than the emergency room's controlled chaos. Here, the pace was slower, more measured. Patients rested in beds arranged in neat rows, some sleeping, others talking quietly with visitors or watching the small televisions mounted on adjustable arms.
The ward was staffed by a mix of nurses, interns, and residents, all moving with the practiced coordination of medical professionals. Mu-shin's attention was drawn to a group gathered near the nurses' station—a tall young man surrounded by six residents, three men and three women, all listening intently as he spoke.
Even from a distance, the tall man's presence was commanding. Standing at least 190 centimeters, with a physique that suggested regular exercise, he carried himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to authority. His features were striking—symmetrical and refined in a way that would not have looked out of place on a magazine cover. The name tag on his white coat identified him as Lee Joon-hyuk, Chief Resident.
Unlike Nam Kyung-soo's approachable demeanor, Lee Joon-hyuk's expression was stern, almost severe, as he directed his team. Mu-shin observed them briefly, noting how the residents hung on Joon-hyuk's every word, their postures attentive and slightly tense—a reaction he recognized from military briefings where the commanding officer was respected but also somewhat feared.
Deciding to avoid any potential confrontation, especially given what he'd learned about departmental rivalries, Mu-shin moved past the group without drawing attention to himself. He'd come to check on patients, not to navigate more hospital politics.
The first bed he approached held an elderly man, perhaps in his mid-seventies, with thinning white hair and skin that bore the weathered texture of a life lived outdoors. The man was awake, staring at the ceiling with the particular blend of boredom and anxiety that seemed unique to hospital patients.
"Good evening," Mu-shin said softly, approaching the bedside. "I'm Dr. Yoon Mu-shin, one of the interns from the Emergency Department."
The old man turned to look at him, surprise evident in his rheumy eyes. "A doctor? At this hour?" His voice was rough but warm, carrying the distinctive accent of rural Gyeonggi Province.
"I wanted to check on how you're doing," Mu-shin explained, picking up the chart hanging at the foot of the bed. The patient's name was Park Dae-ho, admitted with hypertensive crisis—blood pressure so elevated it had put him at risk for stroke or heart attack. "How are you feeling, Mr. Park?"
"Better than this afternoon," Park Dae-ho replied, pushing himself up slightly against his pillows. "Though these hospital beds aren't made for old bones like mine."
Mu-shin smiled, setting the chart aside and taking a seat on the small stool beside the bed. "May I?" he asked, reaching for the old man's wrist to check his pulse.
Park Dae-ho extended his arm without hesitation. "You're different from the other doctors," he observed as Mu-shin's fingers found the radial pulse. "They come in, look at the machines, write something down, and leave. You're actually looking at me."
Mu-shin counted the beats, noting the rhythm was regular but still slightly rapid. "The machines are tools, Mr. Park, not replacements for human contact." He released the wrist and reached for the blood pressure cuff hanging beside the bed. "Do you mind if I check your blood pressure?"
"Go ahead, young man. I'm not going anywhere."
As Mu-shin wrapped the cuff around Park Dae-ho's arm, he asked, "Do you live alone, Mr. Park?"
The old man's expression softened. "My wife passed three years ago. My son lives in Busan with his family. They visit when they can, but it's a long journey."
Mu-shin nodded, understanding the unspoken loneliness in those simple statements. He inflated the cuff, listening carefully as he released the pressure. "160 over 95," he noted. "Still elevated, but much better than when you were admitted."
"Is that good?" Park Dae-ho asked, a hint of worry creeping into his voice.
"It's improving," Mu-shin replied honestly. "But we need to get it lower and keep it there." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "Mr. Park, high blood pressure is often called the 'silent killer' because it doesn't usually cause symptoms until significant damage has already occurred. Have you been taking medication for it?"
The old man looked away, a gesture Mu-shin recognized immediately—the universal sign of a patient who hadn't been following medical advice.
"I don't like pills," Park Dae-ho admitted. "They make me feel strange. And they're expensive."
Instead of the lecture that many doctors might have delivered, Mu-shin simply nodded. "I understand. Many medications have side effects, and cost is a real concern." He leaned forward slightly, establishing eye contact. "But there are different medications we can try, and programs that might help with the cost. Your life is worth that effort, Mr. Park."
The old man's eyes widened slightly at the direct statement.
"Let me ask you something," Mu-shin continued. "What do you enjoy doing? What makes life worth living for you?"
Park Dae-ho seemed surprised by the question, but after a moment's thought, his face brightened. "I have a small vegetable garden. Nothing fancy, but the neighborhood children like to help me tend it. And I teach traditional drumming at the community center twice a week."
Mu-shin smiled. "Those sound like good reasons to stay healthy. The garden needs you. Those children need you. Your drumming students need you."
He reached for a notepad in his pocket and began writing. "I'm going to suggest some adjustments to your medication—options with fewer side effects. But I'd also like to recommend some lifestyle changes that might help reduce your dependence on pills."
For the next ten minutes, Mu-shin discussed practical dietary modifications, simple exercises appropriate for Park Dae-ho's age and condition, and stress reduction techniques. He spoke not as a distant authority figure but as someone genuinely invested in the old man's well-being.
"Small changes, consistently applied, can make a significant difference," Mu-shin explained. "And if you're feeling any unusual symptoms or side effects from your medication, tell the nurses immediately. Don't just stop taking them."
By the time Mu-shin stood to leave, Park Dae-ho's expression had transformed from resigned boredom to cautious optimism. "You'll make a good doctor, young man," the old man said. "You listen. That's rare these days."
"I'll check on you again when I can," Mu-shin promised, meaning it. "Try to rest now."
Moving to the next bed, Mu-shin found a middle-aged woman recovering from appendicitis—one of the regular hospital admissions that had been overshadowed by the bus accident. Her name was Choi Mi-sook, and unlike Park Dae-ho, she had family present—a husband who sat dozing in the visitor's chair beside her bed.
"Mrs. Choi?" Mu-shin said softly, not wanting to wake the husband. "I'm Dr. Yoon, one of the interns. How is your pain level?"
The woman, pale but alert, offered a weak smile. "Better than before surgery. Maybe a four out of ten now."
Mu-shin nodded, checking her chart. "Your last pain medication was administered two hours ago. You're due for another dose soon if you need it."
"I've been trying to wait," she admitted. "I don't want to become dependent."
"That's a common concern," Mu-shin acknowledged, "but acute pain management is different from chronic use. Proper pain control actually helps your body heal faster because it reduces stress and allows you to rest."
He gently examined her abdomen, his touch clinical but considerate. "The incision looks good. No signs of infection." He made a note in her chart. "I'll ask the nurse to bring your next dose. Don't hesitate to use it—you're nowhere near the risk zone for dependency."
Mrs. Choi's husband stirred at the sound of their conversation, blinking sleepily. "Doctor? Is everything alright?"
"Everything is progressing well," Mu-shin assured him. "Your wife is recovering exactly as expected."
The man nodded gratefully, reaching for his wife's hand. The simple gesture of affection—fingers intertwining with practiced familiarity—reminded Mu-shin of the human connections that underpinned medical care. These weren't just patients with conditions; they were people with lives, relationships, and stories that extended far beyond the hospital walls.
Bed by bed, Mu-shin continued his rounds through the General Ward. A young college student with a broken femur from a motorcycle accident. An elderly woman recovering from pneumonia. A middle-aged man being monitored after a minor heart attack. With each patient, he took the time not just to check vital signs and review charts, but to listen, to answer questions, to address fears.
Some of the nurses began to take notice of the unfamiliar intern making unofficial rounds. One approached him as he finished speaking with a patient.
"You're from the ER, aren't you?" she asked, her tone more curious than confrontational.
Mu-shin nodded. "I treated some of these patients earlier today. I wanted to follow up."
The nurse—her name tag read Kim Ji-young—seemed surprised. "That's... unusual. Most ER doctors consider their job done once the patient is admitted."
"I'm still learning what kind of doctor I want to be," Mu-shin replied simply.
Ji-young studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Well, the patients appreciate it. I can tell." She glanced toward the nurses' station, where Lee Joon-hyuk was still holding court with his residents. "Just be careful. Some people are very territorial about their patients."
With that cryptic warning, she moved on to continue her duties. Mu-shin understood the subtext—he was an ER intern making rounds in territory that belonged to another department. But he couldn't bring himself to care about the politics when there were patients who needed attention.
After completing his rounds in the General Ward, Mu-shin made his way to the Trauma Bay, where the most severely injured patients from the bus accident had been stabilized before being moved to surgery or intensive care.
The Trauma Bay had a different energy than the General Ward—more equipment, more monitors, more staff per patient. Here, the battle between life and death was more immediate, the margin for error smaller.
Among the patients was Lee Jun-ho, the young man with multiple injuries whom Mu-shin had initially treated in the ER. Now post-surgery, Jun-ho lay connected to various monitors, his body still but his vital signs stable.
"You made it," Mu-shin said quietly, though he knew Jun-ho couldn't hear him through the sedation. "Good job fighting."
He checked the surgical notes and was pleased to see that his initial assessment had been correct—there had been internal bleeding that required surgical intervention, but the surgeons had managed to control it. The prognosis was cautiously optimistic.
In the next bay was an elderly woman who had suffered a pneumothorax—a collapsed lung—in the accident. She was awake, her breathing labored despite the chest tube that had been inserted to re-expand her lung.
"Good evening," Mu-shin greeted her. "I'm Dr. Yoon. How's your breathing?"
"Like... trying to breathe... through a straw," she managed, each word an effort.
Mu-shin checked her oxygen saturation—89%, lower than ideal but not immediately dangerous. "I'm going to adjust your position slightly," he explained. "Sometimes a small change can make breathing easier."
With gentle hands, he helped her shift to a more upright position, supporting her with additional pillows. "Try to take slow, shallow breaths," he advised. "Fighting for air can actually make it harder to get the oxygen you need."
He demonstrated the breathing pattern he wanted her to follow, and she mimicked it, her eyes fixed on his face like a drowning person watching a lifeline.
"That's it," he encouraged. "Nice and easy."
After a few minutes, her oxygen saturation had improved to 92%—still not optimal, but a meaningful improvement. More importantly, the panic in her eyes had receded.
"My grandson," she said, her voice slightly stronger. "He was supposed to visit tonight. He'll be worried when I'm not home."
"Would you like me to call him for you?" Mu-shin offered. "I can explain what happened and where you are."
Gratitude washed over her features. "Would you? His number is in my phone. It's in that plastic bag with my things."
Mu-shin retrieved the phone and made the call, explaining the situation to the worried grandson in calm, reassuring terms. He answered the young man's questions patiently, providing enough information to be helpful without violating patient confidentiality.
"She's receiving excellent care," he assured the grandson. "The visiting hours tomorrow are from 10 AM to 8 PM. She'll be very happy to see you."
After ending the call, he returned to the elderly woman's bedside. "Your grandson sends his love. He'll be here first thing tomorrow morning."
The relief in her eyes was palpable. "Thank you, doctor. You're very kind."
"It's not kindness," Mu-shin replied. "It's part of healing. Worry can impede recovery. Now you can rest easier knowing he's not sitting at home wondering what happened to you."
He continued through the Trauma Bay, checking on each patient, making small adjustments to positioning, answering questions, providing reassurance. Some were too sedated to interact, but he checked their charts and monitors nonetheless, ensuring that nothing had been overlooked.
By the time Mu-shin completed his self-assigned rounds, it was well past midnight. The hospital had settled into its night rhythm—quieter but never truly still, a constant undercurrent of activity maintaining the delicate balance between life and death.
His body felt heavy with exhaustion as he finally made his way back to the dormitory. The events of the day replayed in his mind—the bus accident, the countless patients, the unexpected political positioning, the system's gifts of knowledge and skill. It had been a day of extremes, of challenges met and lessons learned.
The dormitory was dark when he entered, his roommates already asleep in their beds. Moving quietly to avoid disturbing them, Mu-shin changed out of his scrubs and into sleep clothes. As he lay down on his assigned bed, the thin mattress felt impossibly comfortable to his tired body.
He closed his eyes, allowing the tension to drain from his muscles. In his previous life, he had learned to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself—a soldier's skill that served him well now. Within moments, exhaustion claimed him, pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new patients, new politics to navigate. But for now, Yoon Mu-shin rested, his first day as a doctor—and as the host of the Doctor System—complete.