In the hospital the smell of disinfectant clung to the air, sharp and unforgiving. The steady beep of heart monitors echoed down the narrow corridor, blending with the soft shuffle of nurses moving from room to room. Hyun-Jae sat in the waiting area, hands clenched tightly in his lap. Yumi sat beside him, hugging Harin close against her shoulder, while their mother stood by the window, staring blankly at the night sky beyond the glass.
The sliding door opened, and a man in a white coat stepped out. His face was calm, practiced, but his eyes carried the weight of someone who had delivered far too much bad news.
"Family of Mr. Seo Min-Joon?" the doctor asked gently.
They all stood at once, the tension in their bodies pulling them forward like strings.
"He's stable for now," the doctor said, his voice measured, reassuring. "The heart attack wasn't as severe as it could have been, and we were able to stabilize him. He'll need plenty of rest and close monitoring, but… he will be okay."
Hyun-Jae felt his chest loosen with relief, and his mother let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to her mouth as if holding back tears. Yumi hugged Harin tighter, whispering that everything would be alright.
But before the comfort could truly settle in, the doctor's tone shifted. He hesitated, eyes softening as he looked at them.
"That being said," he continued carefully, "this wasn't his first heart attack, was it?"
His mother nodded faintly. "No… he's had chest pains before. But… we didn't think its going to happen again"
"You should know," the doctor interrupted gently, "his condition is fragile. He's strong-willed, yes, but his heart is weaker than he admits. He may recover from this one… but I cannot promise he'll survive another."
The words hung in the air like a heavy fog.
Hyun-Jae's throat tightened. He glanced at the others his mother's trembling shoulders, Yumi's worried eyes, Harin's confused, frightened expression and a sinking feeling dragged at his gut.
He already knew what this meant.
His father had been the first to insist that he would be the one to go if the draft reached their family. A veteran, a soldier once before it made sense on paper. But now…
Hyun-Jae stared down at his clenched fists, nails digging into his skin. If Dad can't handle another attack, how could he ever handle the draft?
The thought clawed at him, leaving him restless, trapped between the relief that his father had survived tonight and the dread of what the future demanded.
---
Hyun-Jae slipped away while the doctor's voice continued in hushed tones with his mother and sister. The sterile smell of disinfectant still clung to his nose as he pushed open the door to his father's room.
His father lay pale beneath the thin hospital blanket, the rise and fall of his chest steady but weak. Machines hummed softly, monitors blinking in rhythm.
Hyun-Jae pulled a chair closer and sat down, careful not to make too much noise. For a moment, he just watched his father's face, lined from years of labor, looked strangely fragile in this light.
Slowly, his father's eyelids fluttered open. He blinked, confused, before his gaze settled on his son.
"Hyun-Jae… where am I?" His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "What time is it?"
"You're in the hospital," Hyun-Jae said softly, keeping his tone even. "It's late. But you're okay."
His father's eyes flickered with fear, darting toward the IV line in his arm and the machines beside him. He shifted uncomfortably before exhaling, as if realizing the truth of his situation. Gradually, his breathing steadied.
Hyun-Jae leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was calm, almost detached, as if he had been rehearsing the words.
"Dad… I've decided. I'm going to volunteer for the draft."
The room grew still. For a heartbeat, only the soft beeping of the monitor filled the silence.
Hyun-Jae's tone carried no weight of drama, no panic, just quiet resolve. He didn't want to alarm his father, only to let him know.
His father's lips parted slightly, eyes widening before they softened. He closed them again slowly, as if gathering strength.
"…Hyun-Jae…" he whispered, his hand twitching slightly against the sheets.
Hyun-Jae reached forward and clasped it gently, his grip steady and reassuring.
His father's eyes stayed on him, tired but steady. "I can't stop you, can I… in this condition?" he asked, voice rough around the edges.
Hyun-Jae let out a short, unexpected chuckle in half relief, half helplessness. "I suppose you can't," he said softly.
A shadow crossed his father's face. "Does your mother know?"
"No." Hyun-Jae kept his voice low. "Not yet."
"When are you going to tell them?" his father asked, reaching for some sort of plan in the dark.
Hyun-Jae looked down at their joined hands, thinking of everything that happened. "We've already had enough surprises today," he said. "I don't want to give them another one right now."
His father nodded slowly, jaw working. "They'll worry," he said. "They'll try to stop you."
"Maybe," Hyun-Jae admitted. "But if you hadn't made up your mind to go… they'd probably have come after me or Yumi. They would've wanted one of us ready. You were the one who volunteered first."
A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his father's mouth. He squeezed Hyun-Jae's hand with surprising strength. "I suppose you were always stubborn," he whispered. "Like your old man."
"Someone has to keep you from throwing yourself at everything," he muttered looking away from his father's eyes.
His father's eyes grew serious. "Promise me one thing," he said. "If you go if you really step forward promise me you'll be smart about it. Don't just throw your life away."
Hyun-Jae's throat tightened. Pride and fear warred in his chest, but the answer came steady. "I promise."
There was a long pause, filled only by the soft hiss of the ventilator and the beep of the monitor. The hospital light painted his father's face in pallid gold; lines that had always been rugged now looked fragile.
"Good," his father breathed, then his eyes fluttered closed. Whatever he had left to say would wait. The tension in his shoulders eased as if the very act of giving permission had granted him a small reprieve.
Hyun-Jae sat there a while longer, fingers still curled around his father's hand, feeling the weight of the promise settle over him. Outside, the ward continued its quiet, methodical rhythm. Inside, a decision hung between them and either choice would change everything.
Hyun-Jae remained by his father's side, staring at the slow rise and fall of his chest, until the soft shuffle of footsteps drew near. His mother entered first, her expression drawn tight, Yumi and Harin following close behind. They carried the weight of worry in their silence as they gathered around the bed.
"What happened?" his mother asked, her voice trembling as she brushed a hand along her husband's arm.
Hyun-Jae forced a small smile. "Nothing. I just wanted to make sure Dad was alright."
That was enough for now. They turned their full attention to his father, whispering reassurances, holding his hands as though they could anchor him here by sheer will. Hyun-Jae stood, the quiet of the room pressing down on him.
"I feel sleepy," he said, stretching his arms faintly, keeping his tone even. "I'm going to head home."
His mother looked at him and nodded gently, too tired to argue. "Alright. Get some rest."
He offered a small nod back before slipping out of the room.
The night air was cool when he stepped outside the hospital. Streetlights cast pale circles on the pavement, and the bus stop a block away seemed lonelier than usual. He waited, watching the traffic roll past, his thoughts looping back to the promise he had made, to the decision he had not yet shared.
When the bus finally came, he climbed aboard, sitting by the window. The ride was quiet, the city blurred with passing neon signs and shadows. He felt the weight of exhaustion pressing on his shoulders.
By the time he arrived home, the house felt too big, too empty without the others. He let himself in, shuffled to his room, and collapsed onto his bed without changing. Sleep came heavy, tugging him under before he could think any further about tomorrow.