A Brief Respite

I leaned back against the rear seat of the taxi. Well... at least I'm off today. Yes. I was off. Until the sun rose tomorrow, I had every right to be as far away from that hellhole of a hospital as possible. For now, I decided to toss all the bad news into the trash bin of my mind and enjoy this brief, precious slice of happiness. What should I do? Go home, take a hot shower, heat up a frozen pizza, and wash it down with a cold beer? Or just mindlessly scroll through Shorts until I drifted off to sleep?

As I indulged in these pleasant fantasies, a thought crossed my mind. I wonder if anything new has been posted on the gallery. Was it out of boredom? No, it was pure habit. Maybe even an addiction. Perhaps I had reached a point where I couldn't properly end my day without engaging in some pointless banter with these crazy ghosts. The blue interface materialized in the darkness. As expected, the popular posts list was completely plastered with threads about me. One title in particular caught my eye.

[Analysis] Scenarios where Hell Joseon Slave 1 doesn't get ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠utterly screwed...txt

Oh, this piqued my curiosity. In a situation where everyone was absolutely certain of my ruin, someone dared to discuss scenarios where I didn't get screwed? What kind of lunatic would write this? I clicked on the post.

Pfft. A snort escaped my lips. Go ahead, mock me all you want. I didn't get disciplined anyway. It was a "no penalty" ruling, you idiots. What do you know? I flipped a mental middle finger at them and scrolled down. Several other posts caught my eye.

Whoa... well, it really was filled with talk about me. I clicked on the post asking if there was any other way.

Next, I checked the appropriateness analysis post below it.

Right, my crazy stunt. No, rather, Mes-ui Sin's crazy stunt had become the hot topic of the gallery. But wait. Something felt off. The air inside the taxi suddenly felt heavy. I glanced at the rearview mirror. The driver kept stealing glances at me through the mirror. I touched my face. Did I fail to control my facial expressions? I had snorted with laughter while reading the gallery, frowned, and muttered curses under my breath. To anyone else, I must have looked like a complete lunatic. The nightmare from the bus last year flashed through my mind.

[The person next to me is acting weird;; I think they just got discharged from a psychiatric ward]

...Yeah, I probably looked like a madman today, too. I cleared my throat and sat up straight. Then, I pretended to stare at the night view outside the window, trying my best to look like a normal person. I had to be careful. Hanging out with ghosts for too long might be causing me to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lose my grip on reality without even realizing it.

Inhale, exhale. Sinking into the leather seat of the taxi, I let out a long breath as the night scenery whipped past the window. One of the reasons I had been avoiding buses lately was to prevent any more misunderstandings. Ever since that heroic incident last year where I saved an elderly woman suffering from a stroke on a bus, I had become extremely reluctant to use public transportation. While the incident itself was a good thing, realizing that my murmuring into thin air and laughing to myself made me look like a total psycho to the people around me had been a harsh wake-up call. And today, there was the taxi driver's suspicious glances. On top of that, I couldn't shake the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠feeling that I was a natural-born Whanta.

Whanta. A medical slang term combining "patient" and "ride," referring to healthcare workers who act as patient magnets. It was hospital jargon for those who strangely attracted emergency patients or got caught up in exceptionally unlucky incidents wherever they went. Now, I didn't believe in superstitions, but looking back at my past two years of medical life... well, it was hard to ignore the feeling that all sorts of crazy incidents, the kind most people might experience once in a lifetime, were uniquely concentrated on me. An open laparotomy, REBOA, TTP, and even reporting child abuse. Could all of this really be a coincidence? Especially since I had recently realized the absurd truth—more ridiculous than any medical textbook in the world—that ghosts actually existed. Maybe there really was some kind of curse riding on my shoulders? Or perhaps those crazy ghosts residing in my head were the ones dragging disaster behind them.

While I was lost in these useless philosophical musings, the taxi pulled up in front of my familiar studio apartment building. Only after making sure I had completely stepped out of the vehicle did the driver let out a sigh of relief, as if unloading hazardous cargo, and sped away. Standing alone on the empty street, I looked up at the old building I called home. The air of this studio apartment. It felt so good. A tranquility incomparable to the hospital. My very own space, where the smell of disinfectants was replaced by the lingering scent of the hamburger I ordered yesterday. If it smelled a bit strange, it was definitely just my imagination. Heading inside, I decided to share the news of the miraculous victory I had just snatched from the residency committee with my only audience.

...Well, they're as chaotic as ever. I pressed the passcode on my front door. Beep-beep-beep-beep— With a cheerful electronic chime, the door unlocked. I kicked off my shoes haphazardly, flung my bag aside, and stepped inside. I had only one goal: the bed. Lie down first. After that, I could watch short-form videos or do whatever. I headed straight for the bedroom and threw myself onto the fluffy mattress. Ah... now I feel alive.

The outcome was good, anyway. I comforted myself with that thought and opened the blue window once more. I was curious to see the reactions to the post I had just uploaded. Right then, an unexpected comment caught my eye.

What does this guy want now?

Remember? To be completely honest, I barely remembered a thing. I was probably sitting in the very back row of the theater that was my own body, munching on popcorn.

...Uh-oh. A sense of foreboding washed over me.

Argh! No! Fuck!! A lecture from a crazy surgeon!

And just like that, I spent the evening of my day off lying like a corpse on my bed, receiving a one-on-one crash course from a ghost instructor. Mes-ui Sin projected a 3D anatomical model—heaven knows where he got it—right in front of my eyes. He explained everything in bone-crushing detail, from the precise puncture site of the femoral artery, the micro-adjustments of the guidewire's angle, and every single godforsaken complication that could arise during sheath insertion, to the dangers of Zone 1 ballooning and why we had to perform it regardless. Administering pop quizzes along the way, Mes-ui Sin forcefully crammed the REBOA procedure into my brain. How much time had passed? When nearly two hours had flown by, the lecture abruptly stopped.

Mes-ui Sin concluded the lecture, acting incredibly magnanimous. The reason today's lesson was shorter than expected was partly because he skipped quite a few sections, muttering, "You won't be able to do this with your clumsy hands in this lifetime anyway, so I'll show you myself next time," but mostly because I was so exhausted that I just nodded along half-heartedly, pretending to understand. Once the lecture ended, my fatigue miraculously seemed to lift a little. Or maybe my mind had just gone completely numb. I couldn't tell. Though I couldn't exactly call myself refreshed, I was at least in a slightly better state than before as I finally drifted off to sleep.

Ah, tomorrow... is the night shift.

Fuck. Why do days off fly by so fast?