Soo-jin arrived twenty minutes before opening, nerves jangling with every step. The clinic was tucked behind a row of sycamores, its sign simple and discreet—a place you'd only know if someone trusted you enough to give the address. For a moment she hesitated outside, double-checking the door code Joon-ho had sent her the night before. Her hands shook, but the door clicked open easily, spilling a gentle warmth and the faintest scent of lavender into the cold morning.
Inside, the clinic was quieter than she'd expected: soft music playing, plants thriving in every corner, the faint hum of the city muffled by thick walls and careful design. At the reception desk, a tidy stack of files and fresh tea were already waiting. It was efficient, welcoming, and somehow intimate—nothing like the sterile, sprawling hospital wards she'd left behind in Jeju.
