The rain had been falling since evening, painting Daehan General Hospital in streaks of silver beneath the city's cold glow. The corridors were almost empty, except for the echo of wheels and the low hum of machines that never slept.
Dr. Han Seo-jun had been awake for twenty-two hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and his fingers trembled as he pulled off his gloves. On the table before him lay a young man in his twenties, chest still, skin pale. The smell of antiseptic could not hide the faint odor of burnt flesh.
He glanced at the monitor—flatline. The patient had died twenty minutes ago.
But it wasn't the accident that killed him.
It was Seo-jun's mistake.
He had pushed the wrong dosage, too much, too quickly. A fatal lapse made in exhaustion. Now, as the storm rumbled outside, guilt crept into his veins like a toxin. He looked at the chart on his tablet, fingers hesitating above the screen before typing:
Cause of death: cerebral stroke.
A lie. Clean, acceptable, convenient.
He exhaled shakily. No one will know. It's over.
The operating room felt colder now. Shadows clung to the corners like whispers waiting to speak. Then the door creaked open.
Dr. Lee Min-ah entered, holding a file close to her chest. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were sharp.
"Seo-jun," she said quietly, "the CT scan doesn't show any sign of a stroke."
He turned away, pretending to clean the instruments. "It was a secondary effect. You know that happens sometimes."
She set the file down. "You falsified it, didn't you?"
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush them both.
Before Seo-jun could reply, the intercom blared through the room:
> Emergency incoming! Multiple injuries from a car crash! Trauma ward immediately!
Min-ah gave him a long look—half anger, half disappointment—before running out.
Seo-jun was alone again. The hum of the machines returned, steady, mocking. He looked down at the patient's lifeless face. The eyes were half-open, glassy, as though they refused to believe they were dead.
Then something moved.
Just a twitch—barely there. A finger curling inward. A muscle tightening under cold skin. Seo-jun froze. His breath hitched.
"No…" he whispered, stepping closer.
The twitch came again, stronger this time. The chest rose once, shuddering. The monitor, still unplugged, blinked faintly with a single beep.
He stared, unable to think. His rational mind screamed that it was a post-mortem spasm, but another part of him—something primal and buried—felt drawn in. He leaned closer, studying the small wound near the patient's ribs. The skin there looked oddly fresh… almost warm.
Then a scent hit him. Metallic. Sweet. Like iron and heat mixed with guilt.
His stomach twisted—not in disgust, but hunger.
Seo-jun's hand trembled as he reached for the patient's arm. He didn't understand why. He only knew that something inside him whispered that if he ate, if he consumed, he could erase the mistake.
And he listened.
When Min-ah returned ten minutes later, the door was slightly ajar. The lights flickered, painting the hallway in sickly yellow flashes. She stepped inside cautiously.
"Seo-jun?" she called.
The sound that greeted her was not an answer—it was chewing. Slow, wet, deliberate.
Her pulse spiked. She followed the sound, her shoes echoing against the tile. Then she saw him.
Seo-jun sat slumped beside the table, his head bowed, his hands red to the wrists. The air smelled of copper and decay. The patient's arm was missing a piece of flesh.
"Seo-jun…" she whispered.
He looked up. Blood glistened around his mouth. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and empty of the man she once knew.
"He's alive now," he rasped, smiling faintly. "And… so am I."
Min-ah stumbled backward, horrified, but before she could run, the corpse on the table convulsed violently. Its jaw opened, veins blackening beneath the skin. The monitor exploded into rapid, impossible beeping.
Then the dead man screamed.
Min-ah's own scream tore through the corridor. The lights went out.
Outside, thunder rolled across Seoul. Inside Daehan General, something ancient had awoken.
And in the silence that followed, the first infection began.