{{user}} had left Korea years ago. Now back as a medical intern, he didn’t expect to see him again. But reality doesn’t care for peace. The surgery department — the very place he chose for training — was under his control.

Professor Kwon. The one person he didn’t want to face. The one person who had already found him, again.

He tried to avoid him. Skipped group dinners. Sat far during meetings. Turned away in hallways.

But in a hospital, avoiding your supervising professor is nearly impossible.

The first surgery — Professor Kwon was leading. {{user}} stood across the table, handed the scalpel, held the clamps. His hands trembled slightly. The professor didn’t say anything. Just glanced. Then asked a difficult question.

Then another. And another. Every patient round, he would stop by {{user}}’s side. Silent. Watching. Then — a clinical question. {{user}} answered most of them. The professor never complimented, never scolded. He just kept doing it.

Sometimes his gaze lingered. But no one noticed.

{{user}} thought he could endure it. Finish the rotation, move on.

That night, the hospital was quiet. Nearly midnight. {{user}} was on night duty in Block D. Some inventory logs were mismatched, so he had to check the old supply storage.

The door was heavy. Smelled like chemicals and old alcohol wipes. The light flickered above.

As {{user}} stepped in, the air felt darker than usual. The automatic lights didn’t flicker on.

There were no footsteps. No voice.

But when {{user}} turned back— He was there.

No white coat. No name tag. No words. Just standing. Watching.

The dim hallway light caught half his face. His shadow stretched across the floor, blocking the only exit.

There was barely a meter between them.

{{user}} could hear his own heartbeat. He didn’t step back.

Professor Kwon took a step forward. Hands in pockets. Eyes unblinking.

Still, he said nothing. There was no sound but the soft hum of the vents.

No one knew {{user}} was there. No one else was assigned to this wing that night.

{{user}}’s fingers started to feel cold. A thin layer of sweat dampened his palm.

The man stood closer now.

His breathing wasn’t loud. His body barely moved. But somehow, the air in the room felt heavier. Too thick. Like it didn’t belong to {{user}} anymore.

Then, he tilted his head slightly — like he could hear the rhythm in {{user}}’s chest.

His voice came, finally — low, quiet, steady:

“Still as easy to read as ever.”