Chapter 127: Transplant
Chapter 127: Transplant
Operating room.
The ticking of the wall clock sounded as if it were splitting a heart apart.
Tick. Tick.
Robert Moon was barely clinging to life with the help of ECMO (Extracorporeal Membrane Oxygenation).
His breathing beneath the oxygen mask was faint, and the tubes connected across his body trembled like the final threads holding his life together.
Then the operating room doors burst open.
Medical staff ran in carrying an ice container.
“The donor heart has arrived!”
The moment the container was handed to Han Jushin, the camera captured the heart nestled in ice.
The only hope.
As one life ended, the final spark passed on so another could continue.
Alicia bit her lip tightly as she stared at the box.
Mr. Cheon Seonghyeon… thank you…
A name belonging to someone she had never met.
Yet that name served as a bridge connecting two worlds that only the viewers understood.
The lights in the operating room brightened, and the cold scent of sterilizing solution spread through the air.
Robert Moon lay almost entirely dependent on machines, while the mechanical sounds echoed rhythmically around him.
“Starting CPB (Cardiopulmonary Bypass).”
With the perfusionist’s announcement, Robert Moon’s blood circulation was fully transferred to the machine.
“The blade that decides fate… is now in my hands.”
As if accustomed to the moment, the nurse placed a scalpel into Han Jushin’s hand.
The blade sliced cleanly through the skin, opening the first incision.
“Bleeding 250. Stable.”
The sternum was spread apart.
Finally, Robert Moon’s torn heart was exposed.
The myocardial fibers were severed in multiple places, and the rupture had already destroyed its original structure.
The condition was worse than expected.
Even under normal circumstances, a heart transplant was one of the most difficult and technically demanding organ transplants.
But this situation was at least two levels more difficult than that.
Beep… beep… beep—
The machine’s sound wavered ominously with every passing second.
Han Jushin narrowed his eyes.
“Administer cardioplegia.”
“Administering now!”
The moment Robert Moon’s heart completely stopped, everyone watching held their breath as if their own hearts had stopped as well.
Looking at the silent heart, Han Jushin murmured quietly.
“Don’t worry. This stop isn’t death… it’s just a pause before beating again.”
Metallic sounds rang throughout the room as the process of removing the heart began.
Superior vena cava. Inferior vena cava. Left atrium. Pulmonary artery.
Seven blood vessels had to be severed in the exact order.
Even a one-millimeter mistake meant death.
“Starting with the superior vena cava. Clamp.”
“Clamp ready!”
“Good. Position is accurate.”
Han Jushin’s hands moved smoothly.
The vessels were cut at precise angles.
After the clamp locked into place, Robert Moon’s heart was completely separated from his body.
Alicia held her breath.
The empty thoracic cavity looked eerily hollow.
“Deliver the new heart!”
The cooler opened, revealing the donor heart submerged in preservation solution.
A cold and silent mass of muscle.
But inside it, the possibility of life had not yet faded.
“Preservation flush complete. Temperature holding at four degrees.”
Han Jushin received the heart with both hands.
“Good. From here on, we’re not fighting each other. We’re finding a way to survive together.”
He began suturing with the left atrium.
The thread moved smoothly, and Han Jushin’s hands maintained a steady rhythm without the slightest tremor.
Even a single twist in a vessel could block blood flow and lead to death.
But his hands moved with precision—almost beautifully.
As the vessels were meticulously connected, the new heart began to settle into Robert Moon’s body.
Twenty minutes passed.
Thirty minutes.
Forty minutes.
Then a complication erupted.
“The aortic vessel length… is short by three millimeters!”
The donor heart and Robert Moon’s aortic vessel did not match in length.
“Then what do we—”
Han Jushin had already begun moving.
He cut the aorta diagonally at a twelve-degree angle to correct the length.
Through the glass, thoracic surgery chief Park Doyoung shouted.
“If that fails, the aorta will tear!”
“Then I won’t let it tear.”
Calm.
Precise suturing.
“It’s done…!”
Finally, every vessel aligned perfectly.
“Prepare for reperfusion.”
It was the moment Robert Moon’s blood would return to the donor heart.
“Aortic clamp off.”
After the perfusionist’s call, warm blood began flowing into the transplanted heart.
The heart trembled slightly.
But then the monitor emitted a horrifying sound.
BEEEEEEEEEEP—
A straight line appeared.
The heart did not move.
“Asystole!”
“Reperfusion shock!”
Panic swept through the operating room.
“Administer 1 mg epinephrine?!”
“Should we increase ECMO output?!”
Voices overlapped urgently.
But Han Jushin never once looked up.
“Don’t be afraid.”
It was unclear who he was speaking to.
But the force behind those words was undeniable.
Everyone watched in silence.
“You must be confused after meeting a new body… but it’s alright. I’ll take responsibility until the end.”
Then he extended his hand toward the nurse.
“Bring the internal paddles.”
The nurse handed him the internal defibrillation paddles with trembling hands.
“Ten joules. Shock.”
CRACK—
The heart convulsed violently.
But there was no response.
The monitor remained a straight line.
The surgical team swallowed nervously.
“One more time. Twenty joules. Shock.”
CRACK—
The heart convulsed again.
Still no change.
Silence filled the room.
The red straight line glowed on the monitor.
Alicia’s vision wavered.
Someone grabbed her shoulder to keep her from collapsing.
Just as the first assistant prepared for another defibrillation, Han Jushin spoke quietly.
“Any more would be dangerous.”
Instead he said calmly, “This heart has suffered for too long. That’s why it forgot how to beat.”
He opened his palm.
“Pacing wire.”
The nurse handed it to him with shaking hands.
The wire was thin.
One wrong insertion would tear the heart.
It had to avoid the ventricle—but it couldn’t be too shallow either.
Only one precise penetration could save it.
The needle tip pierced the paper-thin myocardium with perfect accuracy.
“Connect.”
The nurse attached the pacing box and increased the electrical current.
Han Jushin looked at the heart and whispered,
“Now remember how to beat.”
Thump.
Thump… thump…
The monitor responded.
Beep—
Beep—beep—
Beep—beep—beep—
A steady rhythm filled the monitor.
The heart began beating again.
And as it did, a single tear fell from Alicia’s eyes.
“BP recovering to 85 over 55!”
“Oxygen saturation normalizing!”
Just as cheers were about to erupt in the operating room, Han Jushin quietly said,
“Yes. That rhythm. Live like that again.”
The operating room no longer held fear or silence.
Only the pulse.
The pulse of new life.
“Reducing CPB. Switching to autonomous heartbeat.”
“Beginning sternal closure.”
The stapler closing the sternum signaled the end of the surgery.
Han Jushin removed his gloves after finishing the final sutures and smiled.
“Well done, Black Flame Dragon.”
Even in this moment, he couldn’t resist the dramatic flair.
But no one could deny it.
The medical team hurried to transfer the patient.
In the midst of it all, Han Jushin nodded toward Alicia.
With a trembling voice, she said, “Th… thank you… so much.”
Han Jushin tilted his head.
“Thank me? I’m not the one you should thank.”
“…What?”
He spoke casually while removing his surgical gown.
“That gratitude… go tell it to the new heart. I only connected the will.”
“Cut! Okay!”
With Director Chae Wongi’s powerful shout, the tension that had gripped the set snapped instantly.
“Wow.”
“That was insane…”
The staff stared at each other in disbelief.
It wasn’t only admiration for the actors’ performances.
They were still reeling from the content of the scene itself.
“Seriously… how did they even think of transplanting the heart of a character from another drama?”
“Once this airs, the internet will explode. Fans of both dramas are going to go crazy.”
“Guaranteed to dominate real-time trends.”
“Did the writer go into a trance or something? How do you even come up with that?”
Naturally, the praise turned toward Writer Joo Hanbit standing behind the director.
“Writer! This is incredible!”
“It gave me chills even reading the script, but seeing it filmed is electrifying.”
“I never imagined something like this!”
As compliments poured in, Joo Hanbit glanced at Han Seungwoo beside her and hurriedly waved her hands.
“N-no! This wasn’t my idea!”
“Come on, you’re being modest. It’s clearly written in the script.”
“No! That’s not it. This was Sunho’s idea.”
“…What? Ryu Sunho’s idea?”
The staff’s eyes widened.
Joo Hanbit hurriedly explained.
“Yes. Sunho is participating in the ‘Seed of Hope for Life Sharing’ campaign as an ambassador for the Ministry of Health and Welfare, so with that concept…”
She passionately explained the planning intention that Ryu Sunho had proposed.
Watching her enthusiastically clarify everything herself, Han Seungwoo nodded slightly.
With reactions like this, the impact is definitely there.
He had worked like hell coordinating between two separate dramas.
But seeing the heated reaction on set convinced him the effort had not been wasted.
Thinking about the intangible benefits this would bring made his fatigue melt away.
“Seriously… what is inside Ryu Sunho’s head?”
“I’m itching for this to air already.”
“Exactly. The ripple effect will be insane. Interview requests will probably flood in.”
One staff member spoke emotionally.
“It may sound like a dream… but I hope more people actually register as organ donors because of our drama.”
“That would be so rewarding. I’d brag everywhere that I worked on this production.”
People laughed as hopeful thoughts spread.
Listening to their excited conversation, Han Seungwoo was certain of one thing.
Their hopes would not remain just dreams.
After the intense heart transplant scene finished filming, time flew by quickly.
Ryu Sunho became busier than ever, rushing through packed schedules.
Then one night, a mysterious file began quietly spreading across an anonymous online community.
[Advertising Industry Trend Report (Confidential)]
The title alone looked unusual.
It appeared to be a document written by someone at an advertising agency for internal distribution.
Normally, documents like this were dismissed as rumor sheets and buried.
But this one was different.
The content was too detailed.
And the analysis was razor-sharp.
The document categorized current S-tier and A-tier celebrities in the industry, coldly evaluating their expected appearance fees, risks, and future prospects.
And on the very last page there was a separate category.
Not S-tier.
Not A-tier.
Just a single initial.
R.
[KEY PLAYER: R]
Rating: R (Continuous upward trajectory)
Estimated model fee: 1 billion won for a six-month exclusive contract
Special notes:
— Currently the No.1 priority in advertising casting. Brands willing to pay any price but often rejected due to schedule conflicts.
— Recognition across all age groups secured through a drama surpassing 30% ratings and a major music variety show issue.
— Rumored ability to provide planning/marketing ideas beyond simple modeling (unconfirmed), making corporate preference extremely high.
Risk: None. Clean private life. Excellent mental management.
The moment this document spread, online communities erupted instantly.
.