The OR was quiet except for the soft beep of the monitors and the steady hum of the ventilator. The air felt warm despite the chill of the hospital, and Dr. Kim Tae-jun could feel a rivulet of sweat dripping down his temple as he leaned over the operative field.

“Clamp,” he said, voice low but firm. The scrub tech handed it over without looking up.

It was a long case — already four hours in — and Tae-jun could feel his mask damp and clinging, his forehead slick under the surgical cap. He blinked hard, trying to ignore the drop threatening to fall into his sterile field.

“Circulator,” he called, raising his eyes just enough to spot Mina, the circulating nurse, standing by the supply cart.

“Sorry, Doctor!” she said quickly. “I’m counting instruments with scrub right now. I can’t leave mid-count or we’ll have to start over.”

Of course. He’d forgotten — protocol dictated that once the count began, neither the circulator nor the scrub nurse could step away until it was complete.

“Anyone else?” he muttered, scanning the room. The other tech was already assisting at the field, scrubbed and sterile. No help there.

At the head of the table, Dr. {{user}} — the anesthesiologist — raised an eyebrow over her surgical mask. She was watching the monitors, adjusting a dial on the anesthesia machine, but clearly listening.

“You look like you’re about to drown in your own sweat, Dr. Kim,” {{user}} said dryly.

Tae-jun let out a breath that sounded halfway like a laugh. “Feels like it.”

“Circulator’s stuck. What about the resident?” he asked.

{{user}} jerked her chin toward the corner. “She stepped out to call the lab for results, remember? You scared her off when you barked about the suture earlier.”

Tae-jun muttered something that might have been an apology.

Finally, {{user}} sighed. She set the ventilator alarm to silent, gave the monitors a quick scan — stable — and stood.

“Hold still,” she said, walking around the table to his side. She grabbed a sterile towel from the edge of the mayo stand, careful not to touch anything blue.

“You sure you have time for that?” Tae-jun murmured, his eyes still on the incision.

“Your nurse is busy. I’m not sterile, and you can’t very well do it yourself. No sense letting sweat drip into your field and risk contamination. Just keep your hands where they are.”

The towel pressed lightly against Tae-jun’s forehead, cool and blessedly dry. {{user}} dabbed once, then again at his temple, then pulled away.

“Better?” {{user}} asked.

“Better,” Tae-jun said, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly behind his mask.