Cold. The hospital light was too bright, almost cutting—as if the world was trying to cleanse itself of everything human. The air carried the scent of antiseptic and blood, faint but tenacious, which sickened him no less than fear.
The gurney was rushed forward. Wheels squeaked on the tile, one voice spoke loudly, another—even louder. Do-jun lay there, pressing his hand to his stomach, his breathing hitched, his lips trembling, his eyes catching fragments: the ceiling, the lamps, hands in gloves, voices.
— Pressure is dropping, — someone shouted.
— Fetal heart rate is unstable! — another replied.
Yun walked beside it, clinging to the rail of the gurney like a drowning man. Every word from the doctors hit him right beneath the ribs.
— I'm with you, — he repeated, even as Do-jun was wheeled through the doors.
— Do you hear me? I'm here, I won't leave.
The operating room door closed right in front of him, with a metallic click. He reached out, but the security stopped him.
— You cannot enter, Mr. Yun, — one of them said, but the voice sounded as if from underwater.
— Get out of the way, — Yun ground out.
— I am not leaving him.
He stepped forward, and only strong hands on his shoulders stopped him. It was Oh-hwa. She appeared from somewhere to the side, in a long coat, her face weary from sleeplessness, but calm.
— You want to save him? — her voice was quiet but cut through the air.
— Then finish the job.
— I can't just stand here!
— You can. — She looked at him directly, without pity.
— He will come back, if there's a place to come back to.
He was silent. Every word tasted of salt. Oh-hwa took his hand, cold, as if it were a stranger's.
— Right now, they are deciding how to save both of them.
Your turn is to make sure this world doesn't devour them when they leave this room.
Yun exhaled. He looked at the door—behind it, voices, the clatter of metal, muffled commands. It smelled of blood. It smelled of fear.
⋆⋆⋆
Inside, everything moved quickly, too quickly.
— Condition unstable, — a nurse said.
— Pulse is unstable. If we don't operate—we'll lose both.
The Chief Doctor, a woman in her fifties with grey-streaked temples, nodded.
— Preparing for emergency Cesarean. Immediately.
The lights intensified, surgical lamps lowered close. Above Do-jun's body flashed masks, gloves, the rustle of instruments. He was conscious—barely. Through the anaesthesia, he heard the drone of voices, and one—foreign, yet familiar—resounded inside, even if not physically present:
I'm here. I won't let go.
Tears flowed, not because of the pain—but because of the fear. His fingers clenched, as if searching for someone in the void. In response—silence and light.
⋆⋆⋆
Outside the door, Yun stood, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. He felt his heart pounding in his temples. Everything around him vanished—only that door remained.
— If they… — he started, but Oh-hwa interrupted.
— They will survive. You have to believe, Yun.
He looked at her—his eyes red, his breathing heavy.
— I don't know how to believe. I only know how to hold on.
— Then hold on to this, — she replied.
— To him. To the child. To the fact that you still have a home.
He nodded. Then he sat down on the cold plastic chair by the wall, his back against the white surface. His head was ringing, as after an explosion. For the first time in a long while, he didn't know what to do.
And only one thought spun in his mind: Let everything crumble, just not them.
The minutes dragged on like an eternity. Figures of doctors, sounds of footsteps, and the clinking of instruments flickered at the end of the corridor. Everything seemed to slow down until the door finally opened.
A nurse rushed out, a mask on her face, her voice muffled:
— Cesarean. Emergency. The risk is high, but we have a chance.
She didn't finish speaking—the door closed again. Yun got up, took one step forward, then a second. And stopped. He understood: everything now depended not on strength, not on power, not on him.
For the first time in his life, he couldn't control anything. And that was truly terrifying.
He was standing by the window, looking at the black rain outside the glass, when Oh-hwa's quiet voice sounded behind him:
— Sometimes salvation is not action, but waiting.
Yun did not reply. He simply clenched his palm, where he could still feel the imprint of another's hand.
Let the rain fall. Let the night last. Just bring him back to me.