Special Tutoring (1)

Just then, heavy, thundering footsteps began rushing over from the Resuscitation Room.

"Out of the way! Out of the way! Move, everyone!"

I turned toward the noise. It was the chief resident.

"What the fuck is going on?! What is it, what is it?! Why did the alarm suddenly go off in Zone B?! Did someone arrest?!"

Lee Min-jae, the fourth-year resident, pushed past us and approached the patient. The chief quickly assessed the patient's condition, then checked the settings on the BiPAP machine.

"Hmm..."

He stroked his chin in thought for a moment, then pressed a few buttons on the machine to tweak the settings.

"Let's bump the RR to 16, and give a little more FiO2 at 30%. This should keep them much more stable."

He glanced at the ABGA results recorded in the EMR and nodded.

"There we go. Good initial management."

With a satisfied look, the chief headed back to the Resuscitation Room to finish up with the trauma patient.

...I saved them.

Pretending to head to the supply closet, I slipped into a corner and quietly opened the system window. A vivid popup window materialized in my field of vision.

My eyes widened.

...Oh, 300 LP. That's a solid haul.

The night was drawing to a close. I was slumped in a corner of the nurse's station, utterly exhausted. One by one, the seniors who had been fighting for lives in the Resuscitation Room trudged out, their faces pale with fatigue. In the end, the trauma patient survived and was wheeled up to the operating room.

"Hyun-jae, aren't you going home?"

Kim Ji-hoon, who had approached without me noticing, looked down at me with hollow eyes. It was obvious he had just been absolutely wrecked on his shift.

"You go ahead. I just need to finish up a few more charts."

"Hey, you're gonna die at this rate. Just wrap it up half-assed and let's go. Don't we have to prepare for the conference the day after tomorrow anyway?"

"I know. I'll head out soon."

I waved him off, sending him on his way. Conference, my ass. All I wanted to do was dive headfirst into my bed. I couldn't even muster the strength to press the keys on my keyboard. Finally, I finished the last patient's chart and clicked the log-out button.

"I'm heading out first, Doctor."

I gave a polite bow to the senior resident guarding the station. Now this is what they call the MZ generation.

"Yeah, get some rest. You worked hard today."

Yes, yes, thank you. Swallowing my soulless reply, I turned around. Should I catch a taxi? No, let's just take the bus. A taxi is a luxury at this ungodly hour.

...By the way, does this thing open outside the hospital?

The thought suddenly struck me. Was it like Wi-Fi? Until now, I had never once thought of opening the gallery outside the hospital during my commute.

Gallery.

Ping. The familiar blue interface materialized. It worked. Letting out a sigh of relief, I scanned the gallery's main page. And then, I couldn't help but let out a dry laugh.

I was momentarily speechless at the bone-shattering truth. It felt like these bastards were monitoring my every move. Letting out a hollow chuckle, I began to write a post.

A moment after I hit the submit button, my comment notifications exploded like crazy.

Cut the crap. I can't go and die just to keep you guys entertained.

As I scrolled down, my eyes caught on one particular comment.

It was a fact. A 100% pure, unadulterated truth that hit me right where it hurt.

I paused. ...Is that so? Come to think of it, he was right.

'Hands are a matter of talent. Those who don't have it never will.' A comment I had read before flashed through my mind.

If I didn't have talent, I had to at least put in the effort. I couldn't rely on this crazy gallery forever. After a brief hesitation, I posted a reply.

The moment my reply went up, the atmosphere of the gallery shifted instantly.

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These crazy workaholic bastards. Chuckling to myself, I closed the gallery window.

'Go buy some pork rind and practice suturing at home every day.' A comment left by one of the ghosts came to mind.

And that was how I ended up arriving at my studio apartment, carrying plastic bags in both hands, packed with a generous amount of pork rind for suturing practice. Alcohol swabs, suture threads, surgical instruments, and the fresh, pink pork rind.

Alright. Let's do this.

A scene straight out of hell was unfolding on my kitchen counter. A desk lamp served as the surgical light, and beneath it lay the pork rind. A wave of existential dread washed over me.

'You can borrow a brain, but you can't borrow hands.'

Even if I could cheat my way through knowledge, the muscle memory of my hands was entirely up to me.

...I should probably record this and upload it.

Struggling alone was pointless. I needed feedback. This crazy gallery allowed me to write posts and take photos just by thinking. There was no way video recording wouldn't work.

Record my field of vision for one minute starting now.

A tiny REC icon appeared in the corner of my vision. Okay. I picked up the needle holder and the forceps. Whew. A deep breath.

The first needle pierced the pork rind.

Squelch. Ah, fuck. It went in too deep. The angle was completely off, too. I tried to pull the needle out, but it wouldn't budge easily. When I tugged on the rind with the forceps, it tore hideously. Forget a knot, I had only made a messy gash.

Stop recording.

I opened the gallery and posted a new thread, attaching the one-minute disaster video I had just recorded.

Naturally, the first comment was from that bastard.

Criticism and insults rained down from all directions. Fine. 90 degrees. 90 degrees.

I started recording once more. This time, I focused all my attention solely on the angle. Perpendicular. I pierced the needle in at a perfect right angle. Oh, it worked. This time, it went in quite smoothly. Smiling, I pulled the needle out the other side and drew the thread through.

Now, all I had to do was tie it. I attempted a surgeon's knot, just as I had learned. Loop once, loop twice. Huh? My fingers got tangled. The thread knotted up.

Stop recording.

I recorded another one-minute video and attached it in a reply.

Mumbling curses under my breath, I untangled the thread. Instrument tie. Knotting with instruments. Right, tying with tools.

Recording again. Grabbing the end of the thread with the needle holder, wrapping it around the forceps...

Ping. Ah, fuck. I lost my grip on the thread. I barely resisted the urge to slam my head against the desk.

Just then, even the internal medicine guys started chiming in.

I did my best to ignore their bickering and focused back on the pork rind. Record, upload, get trashed. Then record, upload, and get absolutely blasted again.

Crooked and uneven. The spacing was a mess, and the shapes of the knots were all over the place. Sweat dripped down my chin, splashing onto the dining table.

Yet, strangely enough, as I repeated this madness, the sensation in my fingertips grew sharper. The grip strength of my hand holding the needle holder, the delicacy of grasping the tissue with the forceps, the tension of pulling the thread. I wasn't using my brain anymore; my body was beginning to remember. Naturally.

By the time I uploaded the eleventh video, the tone of the comments began to shift subtly.

And finally, it was after I uploaded the fifteenth video. In the video, my hands were no longer trembling. I had cleanly created five consecutive knots with fairly consistent spacing.

It was the ultimate compliment. Seeing that comment, I let out an involuntary chuckle. I closed the gallery window.

A bone-deep fatigue crashed over my entire body. I wanted to just collapse right there on the dining table and fall asleep.

But hey, I did it. Cheers to that.