there used to be times when she’d felt a sense of heroism after successful surgeries, encased in the virtuous honor that so many now pride themselves with, but such was only a case when she still had been yet to mature out of her naivety, and now–well, she no longer finds such an exuberant feeling of accomplishment, nor does she deliberately go searching for one. six long hours in the operating room has drained what little zest she’d had in the morn completely out of her, and all she wishes is to rest; yet she knows she cannot return home ( and to the pill case that finds itself constantly being restocked and rearranged, though never leaving its position on a black marble counter ) anytime soon, and it’s enough to make her appear irritable–an expression that goes well to her advantage when she doesn’t wish to be bothered. she’s to head an operation for a team of observers, and that barely leaves enough time to run all the errands she knows she’ll only be pestered with in the near future.
she’s exhausted, of course she is–she’s running on two hours of sleep, three if she gets lucky later tonight, and the sights she has seen today are not exactly prime for building up an appetite. it’s pointless to change, though as soon as she throws her coat over dark navy scrubs, she feels a warm liquid spreading against her arm, the sleeve of the newly washed lab coat catching slightly on the stickiness. the bandage she had hastily wrapped before the surgery is pushed back to reveal the irritated edges of a freshly inflicted gash ( nothing too serious, she thinks; it only seems bad because she hasn’t had the time to stitch herself up yet ), uneven and messy, the deepest part still concealed by the soiled gauze.
it’s not hard to recall the story behind this one: a struggle that’s gotten too physical, a blow on the head and a cut behind the knee, the glistening silver of army knives and the bared teeth of a woman as she slaughters a man and his companion, like a lioness bored of toying with her prey, finally gnawing into the poor creature’s throat and feasting on what’s been hers from the moment she’d lain eyes on it. perhaps eunjae can be compared to such ferocity when the wildness in her eyes still glows, and it’s almost amusing how oblivious most everyone she’s come across is. do they never tire from revering and praising her surgical prowess and “never-failing” morality? oh–how they’d snarl in disgust if they knew her true nature, if they knew how ecstatic she became not when saving lives, but rather crippling them ( morals are a fickle thing ).
although her destination appears to be her office ( the director seems to think shiny things and pretty spaces can appease that ambition of hers ), she stops by the cafeteria, purchasing a strong, flavorful coffee for herself, but after a moment of hesitation, she ends up walking out with two drinks in her hand, one lighter and sweeter, the color of caramel compared to dark cocoa. she figures she’ll just deliver this to the hard worker she has in mind, simply greet him and be on her way–but as her eyes finally settle on the sight of him and she’s walking stealthily towards his direction, she feels her lips curl into a pleasant smile. “dr. kang, i’m feeling a little nauseous at my generosity. got any remedies?”
the truth is paper thin, and at times literally.
it’s the first instinct that has him contemplating, pondering; the thoughts thereafter don’t quite matter just yet. logic works in the strangest of ways in which sense is a malleable concept, at times twisted and bent to fit, other times it’s straightened out cleanly –– whichever speaks to the person involved really. the side of his thumb is caught in between his teeth, brows pulled taut while he subconsciously gnaws at the dead skin ( a horrible habit he really ought to rid himself of, but couldn’t care less of in the moment ). it’s only when he reaches nerves and flesh does he stop altogether and all too abruptly, wincing in response before his gaze lands on the red that pools and spills. the minor bite is tended to with a simple wipe and a bandaid, but he’s glancing across the lab on the piece of paper he’s left on his table several moments ago, and the brown envelope that it’s come with.
not the results he’s expecting.
then again, he hasn’t been expecting her in this situation ( or in any similar situations ) at all. there is no likely explanation, yet regardless of his own tedious reasoning, doubts find their way through the cracks and he’s left unravelled and bare. it’s back to square one. the suspicions shackle him down by the ankles with guilt, shoulders slanted and this time he works on his other thumb, unknowingly yet intently. he goes through the test results again and again, wishing for a different outcome each time he does, as though something he’s missed out in between could be the game changer; but nothing, absolutely nothing. this can’t be right.
but righteousness is defined in many ways, and for four years he’s been told repeatedly that his stand is always with the law –– rules that dictate and rules that govern. it’s the only right he’s been taught, except he’s learned otherwise to know better. by the time he has the piece of paper in his hands again, there’s an extra bandaid on the other thumb.
and of all times, she decides to show up today –– right now, just as he steps out of the lab. the familiar flush of warmth that supposedly sets him at ease is no longer; instead there’s anxiety brewing from the ( almost ) certainty and it gnaws at him. the smile comes a tad belatedly, and he veils the rigidity by reaching for both cups of coffee in her hands, an attempt to shift his ( her ) focus onto the drinks. “ah –– patients aren’t usually allowed here but seeing as you’re a fellow doctor and you brought coffee, i’ll indulge.” he breathes a quiet laugh and eye contact is brief, “sounds serious, think you have to take the last resort by forcing it into a habit. i volunteer as tribute?” the words don’t quite seem to come off as the intended but the attempt in a light banter is made nonetheless, his tone softening as a result. perhaps he needs truth in the form of coffee-stained smiles.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
2087
