EP.8 The Strange Guy (1)

I sat in an empty chair in the on-call room, staring blankly into space.

The deranged comment Guy Hit by a Truck had left kept circling stubbornly through my head.

Don't talk if you've never been hit.

Fuck. Yeah, I'd never been hit. And I didn't want to get hit either, you crazy bastard.

I let out a sigh at those ghosts, who clearly had no intention of growing up even in death.

Hmm. Let's get this organized.

Up until now, I'd just been lurking in this database, barely snatching up whatever information happened to spill out. Like when I'd posted about the FUO patient — if someone luckily handed me an answer, great. If not, oh well.

This wasn't going to work. It was way too inefficient. If I wanted to properly break these bastards in and put them to work, I needed to show my hand for real.

I'm alive.

Those two words. I needed to burn that fact into these ghosts' brains.

Alright. Let's do this.

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shot up from my seat. The problem was how to prove it.

"Verification, huh."

The simplest method was a selfie. Take a picture of my face and post it. I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head.

Are you insane? Imagining myself throwing up a V-sign with a rotting expression in this dingy on-call room made me cringe so hard my hands and feet might as well have retracted into my body. That wasn't my style. More than anything, the thought of those ghost bastards holding a full judging panel over my face sent a chill down my spine.

Comments like that were guaranteed.

So another method? What about screenshotting an EMR screen — the electronic medical record. Patient lists and prescription logs. There was no more definitive proof of being a doctor.

...No.

A warning light went off in my head. Violation of the Personal Information Protection Act. Patient names, ages, diagnoses — all of it was sensitive information. Leak that and I'd lose my medical license, plus pick up a criminal record to go with it.

But wait.

"They're ghosts."

Right? That's right. They were already dead. Ghosts who couldn't be judged by any court and couldn't intervene in the real world. Would the Personal Information Protection Act even have jurisdiction in the afterlife? Was there a cyber crimes unit in the underworld that would send me a summons?

The thought alone was absurd, but you never know. High-risk gambles were to be avoided.

After much deliberation, I landed on the most perfect, safest method of all.

The patient monitor. Heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation. That screen with a living person's vital signs blinking in real time. Zero personal information, and yet it would prove more definitively than anything that this was a hospital currently in operation.

Alright. This was the one.

I looked around, grabbed a sticky note and a pen, and pressed down hard as I wrote out the handle that stood for who I was.

Preparations were done. I quietly slipped out of the on-call room and headed for the ER station. Fortunately everyone was busy, so nobody paid any attention to a first-year resident stuffed in a corner.

I approached the patient monitor beside an empty bed in Zone B.

Beep— beep— beep—

The perfect backdrop. I stuck the sticky note on a clearly visible corner of the monitor, pulled up the Gallery, and hit capture.

Click.

I went back to the on-call room and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠threw myself onto the bed. The title didn't need to be grandiose. Short and punchy.

I didn't write a body. Just one photo, and beneath it, a single short sentence. Now I was the one holding the cards.

Heh heh heh.

One deep breath. I hit submit.

And then.

After one second of silence, the comment notifications exploded all at once.

The Gallery exploded.

I scrolled down, drunk on satisfaction. Ghosts from every specialty were pitching their fields of expertise at me, screaming something close to a courtship.

I took the hand that had been pressed to my forehead, and opened the compose window once more.

Submit.

A reaction erupted that made the previous wave look tame.

Ghosts from every department started fighting over who the real expert was.

Is this how idols and celebrities feel?

This should be enough. Now that I had this powerful weapon in my hands, all I had to do was steadily accumulate LP and get my hands on the Possession skill.

That was the exact moment.

"Dr. Hyeon-jae!"

I jerked my head up, startled.

"The patient in Bed B-22's been running a fever for a while. Can you come take a look?"

"Ah — yes! On my way!"

I shot up from my seat. Ding— ding—. The shrill alarm of a patient monitor. A drunk shouting from somewhere far off. The sting of disinfectant in my nose.

This was my reality.

"Fuck. Back to work."

I muttered the curse under my breath and trudged toward Bed B-22.

Lee Min-jae, fourth-year and chief resident of Emergency Medicine, stared absently at first-year Han Hyeon-jae's retreating back.

He'd called a rheumatology professor directly and diagnosed a rare disease called VEXAS syndrome, then a few hours later he'd even caught ciguatera poisoning from tropical fish toxin.

This was the performance of a first-year who'd only been at this a few months?

The record of the past few months flickered through his mind.

Han Hyeon-jae. He definitely hadn't been this kind of character.

"Hyeon-jae, is this too hard for you?"

A patient brought into the ER with alcoholic cirrhosis. Catching thin, inelastic veins was always tricky. But this had been a bit much. Hyeon-jae had stabbed the patient's arm four times, dripping with sweat, and the patient had worn a look of weary resignation. Eventually, unable to watch any longer, Min-jae had spoken up to the nurse.

"Jin, sorry — could you get the line for me instead?"

Hyeon-jae hadn't even been able to lift his head, just murmuring sorry in a voice as small as an ant's.

He'd been a long way from an ace. Just your garden-variety bumbling first-year.

"Hyeon-jae. This patient's chief complaint is epigastric pain. What's your differential?"

"Acute gastritis is the most likely, sir! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'll consider an EGD if needed!"

"Then what labs should go out?"

"I'll check a basic CBC, LFTs, and inflammatory markers!"

The answers, at least, had come out loud and clear.

"Did you eat the acute pancreatitis differential for dinner? You're not ordering a lipase?"

"...Ah!"

That little gasp of someone who'd only just remembered. Those were the kinds of mistakes you saw all the time in the early months of first year. And that was all he'd been. He wasn't particularly outstanding, but he wasn't a total wreck who needed his hand held either.

Sure, he was good-natured and hardworking. Just that kind of kid. Clumsy, occasionally pitiful, but a first-year who still ground through his work somehow.

But today, Hyeon-jae had been a completely different person. Like a veteran professor, he'd reeled in two rare diseases back to back.

What the hell? What happened in the meantime?

People didn't change overnight without a reason.

Did he... study like a complete maniac?

Min-jae stopped the thought there.