An Odd Fellow (3)

Senior Lee Min-jae's prophecy became a curse, fulfilling itself with terrifying accuracy. Since that day, my status in the emergency medical center had completely transformed. Though, I wasn't sure if "status" was the right word in a positive sense. Well, actually, looking at it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from a certain angle, maybe it was positive. But one thing was absolutely certain: for me, the situation was anything but positive.

Of course, it was a good thing for my peers and juniors. In the first place, they were the reason my status had risen. But seriously, the seniors shouldn't be happy about this. I get that it's a pain when people come to ask you questions, you lazy bastards, but still. A first-year resident is currently working his ass off here. You should at least pretend to supervise!

In any case, instead of being treated like a lowly first-year rookie, I had become a figure adorned with embarrassing and burdensome titles like the "God of Diagnosis," the "Walking UpToDate," and the "Savior of the Juniors." And the price for that was horrific.

"Dr. Han Hyeon-jae! Wait a moment, please!"

At 3:00 AM, just as my mind was starting to go numb from processing the endless stream of patients, an intern rushed up to me, his face pale. He was holding a freshly printed EKG strip in his hand.

"Um, there's a seventy-eight-year-old female patient who keeps complaining of epigastric pain and nausea. It seems like simple indigestion, but I took an EKG just in case, and it looks a bit ambiguous..." The intern's voice trailed off.

I sighed inwardly as I took the EKG strip. At a glance, it didn't look much different from a normal electrocardiogram. But just as the intern said, there was a very subtle ST-segment depression of about 0.5 millimeters in leads V1 through V3. For an early first-year resident, it was a finding easily dismissed as a mere "margin of error" or a "nonspecific change."

Holding the EKG, I stared blankly at a point in the air. Access Gallery.

Barely half a second after the post went up, that 118.235 IP address made its appearance once again.

Having checked the answer key, I turned my gaze back to the intern.

"Considering the patient's age and symptoms, we can't rule out an atypical myocardial infarction. In particular, this could be a posterior MI, so place additional leads V7 through V9 on the patient's back and run another EKG. Also, draw labs immediately for cardiac enzymes, including troponin (*a protein present in heart muscle), and notify me as soon as the results are out."

"Huh? A posterior MI? Ah! Understood!"

A short while later, the additional EKG the intern brought back showed a clear ST-segment elevation in leads V8 and V9. A textbook presentation of a posterior myocardial infarction. I immediately paged the on-duty cardiologist, and the patient was rushed off for an emergency procedure. I had just saved another patient who might have otherwise been left with "indigestion" while her heart muscle slowly rotted away. Proud.

This kind of thing repeated itself several times a day.

"Hyeon-jae, take a look at this patient. He's a twenty-five-year-old male. His X-ray is perfectly clean, but he's had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a dry cough and a persistent fever for a week. I have a bad feeling about it." My peer, Kim Ji-hoon, scratched his head and asked me.

"...Hmm, even if the X-ray is clean, it could be atypical pneumonia. Considering a Mycoplasma infection, I think it would be best to start him empirically on the antibiotic Azithromycin."

"Ah, right! Atypical pneumonia! I almost just sent him home with cold medicine." Kim Ji-hoon clapped me on the shoulder, looking genuinely impressed.

"The guy who suddenly stares blankly into space to think deeply whenever you ask him something, only to spit out a brilliant answer a moment later." That was my new reputation.

To an intern who showed me an X-ray of a sprained ankle with an ambiguous bone fragment, I told them, "That's just an accessory bone (*an extra bone fragment attached to normal bone), so leave it alone." To a peer whose pediatric patient was fussing and constantly touching their ear, I advised, "If there's no redness on the tympanic membrane, there might be an insect or something in the ear canal, so take a look with an otoscope."

Thanks to this gallery, I was constantly forced to spout knowledge far beyond my years of experience. They said most of these were things that would be easy to differentiate and think of once you gained a bit of experience. Of course, since I was a mere rookie, I couldn't properly recall most of those cases on my own.

Before I knew it, it was past 5:00 AM. Worn to a thread by the endless barrage of questions, I hid in a corner of the supply room to escape everyone's eyes. As I leaned my head against the cold wall, my eyes began to slide shut. Please, just one minute. I don't care if it's only a minute, just let nobody find me. Fuck. Please, just go ask the senior residents. Don't come to me, go ask the third-year and fourth-year residents sitting right over there, you bastards. I don't know either. I'm just a first-year resident, exactly like you guys.

Leaning my head against the cold supply room wall, I opened the system window to check the fruits of my labor. For the past several hours, I had moved, thought, and provided answers without a single moment of rest. I had become the savior of the interns and my peers, preventing their mistakes. What was the reward given to me in return?

I tapped on the LP acquisition history. A detailed list popped up on the screen.

...Is this seriously it? A measly 22 LP in total. My total LP was now 622 points. I let out a hollow laugh.

Fuck, these are all minor cases, and since I'm just confirming things for others, none of it counts as me treating them directly. No wonder I'm barely gathering any LP.

The system was cold and calculating. Assisting in a diagnosis was merely assistance; it did not grant full rewards. The system was structured so that proper points were only awarded when I personally examined the patient, made the diagnosis under my own responsibility, and initiated treatment with my own orders. Acting as a human consultant cleaning up after others like this, it would take months just to gather 1,000 LP, let alone 5,000.

Irritated, I closed the LP window and navigated to the main page of the Deceased Medical Scientists Gallery. I wanted to see what kind of nonsense these ghost bastards were spouting now. And then, I doubted my own eyes. The gallery's popular posts list was completely plastered with stories about me.

Dumbfounded, I stared blankly at the screen. These ghost bastards were watching my struggles in real-time and even holding debates about them.

To these crazy forum users, I was no longer just a normal, living doctor. I had become something like a 24-hour live streamer, curing the boredom of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠these insane ghosts.

I clicked on one of the posts to check the comments.

These crazy bastards are treating my patients like a leisure activity.