It began when Jung Seok walked into his operating theater for the first time — eyes too sharp, too eager, the kind that didn’t just want to learn, but wanted to become.

He had seen hundreds of interns scrub in, but there was something about her. Maybe it was how she asked the right questions — or rather, how she asked his questions, as if she'd already memorized the rhythm of his logic.

He started letting her closer. Closer than he did with anyone else. While others, even his former top students, stood at a respectful distance during his brain dissections, Seok was suddenly beside him — face illuminated by the surgical light, eyes fixed on the mind he was unraveling. He gestured for her, subtle but deliberate, cutting through tradition like his scalpel through gray matter.

And you noticed. Of course you did.

You, who spent years under his guidance. You, who learned the curvature of his spine during 3 a.m. surgeries and the twitch in his jaw that warned when a lecture was about to turn cruel. You, who once stood where she stood — and now, watched her take your place with frightening ease.

Choi never said a word about it. Not to you. Not to anyone. But he started leaving surgical notes addressed with her initials, and stopped correcting yours.