A Materialistic and Blunt Question
The professor glanced back at me for a moment after hearing the question, then returned his focus to the road. He gave a small wave of his hand and said, “Ah, that will depend on the results of today’s examination.”
The car came to a stop in a quiet area behind the hospital. We walked through the back entrance marked with a bold No Unauthorized Entry sign as if it were the most natural thing in the world. This was my third visit to the hospital recently. Today’s tests were surprisingly simple—listening to my breathing with a stethoscope, snapping photos of my ears and tail, and asking whether I felt any discomfort or what I’d eaten lately.
“Is that all?”
“Yes. It’s simpler than expected, isn’t it?”
When I tilted my head at how anticlimactic the whole thing had been, the professor smiled and agreed that it really hadn’t amounted to much.
“And here is the name of your bank and the account number…” He handed me another sheet of paper. It listed the bank I used and the account details. They were clearly planning to deposit the payment directly.
“Today’s compensation will come to about seventy-four thousand won. For future examinations, depending on the complexity, the amount could range from a minimum of one hundred thousand won up to seven or eight hundred thousand.”
He continued with a detailed breakdown of the payment tiers and compensation structure. The figures were far more realistic than I’d hoped, and I must have let my disappointment show.
“Patient, you feel the amount is rather small, don’t you?”
“Huh?”
My eyes widened at the pinpoint accuracy of the question. How could he tell? Had he studied psychology on the side? Apparently my face had given everything away. I averted my gaze, then reluctantly admitted it.
“Ah… um, yes.”
“Haha, that’s perfectly understandable.”
The professor chuckled warmly and flipped through the pages in his folder. Had my dissatisfaction been that obvious? I touched my face, wondering, while he continued typing on the keyboard across from me.
“At this stage, that’s simply how it is. You haven’t yet consented to long-term observation or research participation.”
“Long-term observation…? Research participation…?”
I frowned, puzzled by the terms. “Research participation” was self-explanatory, but “long-term observation” left me uneasy. Did it mean they’d assign people to follow me around? The idea felt vaguely creepy.
“What exactly is long-term observation?”
“Have you heard of the marshmallow experiment? They gather four-year-old children, place a single marshmallow on a plate, and tell them that if they can wait fifteen minutes without eating it, they’ll receive a second one. The study then tracks which children—those who waited or those who couldn’t resist—tended to become more successful as adults…”
What began as a simple question turned into a lengthy explanation. It was the same story I’d once heard in the context of teaching patience. I couldn’t recall exactly where I’d seen it, but I remembered watching the video in school.
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of it.”
“Exactly. While it differs somewhat from the long-term tracking used in modern medicine, the core idea of monitoring progress over time is quite similar.”
The professor used the marshmallow test as an analogy, explaining that long-term observation worked along the same lines. So it wasn’t anything too alarming after all.
“We’re still verifying many aspects, so I can’t give you a definitive answer yet. Should we determine that extended study is necessary, we will explain everything in detail and seek your consent, just as we did last time.”
“I see…”
He added that there were still many variables to examine. While he couldn’t make promises now, he would provide a full explanation when the time came. I nodded vaguely and gave a noncommittal reply.
“This conversation really ought to include your guardian, but honestly, a high school student should be able to follow it without difficulty, correct?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess so.”
I scratched the back of my head awkwardly. My fingers caught on the soft, fluffy strands of hair. I couldn’t just leave them scattered in the consultation room, so I rolled them into a tiny ball and slipped them into my pocket.
“In any case, thank you for today’s examination. I’ll have a brief word with your guardian and then drive you straight home.”
“Okay.”
After my short reply, the professor stepped out of the consultation room. The conversation he had with Mom outside was indeed brief: the examination was finished, and he would drive us home in his car. That was about the extent of it.
Once they were done, we slipped out through the rear of the hospital, climbed into the sleek black car, and only after settling into the back seat did Mom finally speak to me.
“How much are they putting in the account?”
“Seventy-four thousand won.”
I answered lightly. Seventy-four thousand won. On my own, that was enough for three delivery orders. It wasn’t a fortune, but for a second-year high schooler it was more than enough to count as decent allowance money.
Mom gave me a serious look. “I won’t touch it, so make sure you save it properly.”
“Yeah.”
I nodded. Mom had always been strict about money. Even the New Year’s gifts I’d received as a kid were still sitting untouched in the bank.
“Do you and your family usually talk often?”
The professor, who had been quietly listening from the driver’s seat, suddenly asked us a short question. There was an odd, unreadable intent behind it. Weren’t families supposed to talk a lot?
Mom and I exchanged bewildered glances.
“…What kind of question is that?”
“Of course we talk a lot,” Mom answered.
The professor gave an awkward smile that I caught in the rearview mirror.
“Ah, our family tends to be rather… quiet.”
He lifted his right hand from the steering wheel and waved it vaguely, looking somewhat embarrassed. It seemed his household wasn’t exactly chatty.
“How many children do you have?” Mom asked immediately, jumping straight into personal territory the moment the topic turned to family.
“One son and one daughter.”
Even though the question could have been awkward, he answered smoothly. One son and one daughter. There were some similarities to our own family.
Buoyed by that unexpected common ground, Mom pressed on. “They fight like crazy, right?”
“Yes, I’ve heard as much from their mother…”
“But you’ve never seen it yourself?”
“I spend more time outside the house than in it.”
What had begun as a simple drive suddenly turned into adult conversation. I stayed quiet and started fiddling with my phone. The golden rule was to stay out of grown-up talk. Besides, there wasn’t any topic I could really contribute to anyway.
“We only have two daughters now,” Mom said, gesturing toward me.
“Huh? Ah… I see.”
The professor seemed momentarily thrown by the joke. He let out a dazed “Huh?” before sighing in understanding.
“How old are your children?”
“The younger one is nineteen, and the other is already an adult.”
The conversation about sons and daughters continued. I lost interest and kept staring at my phone until—
“Ah, and regarding your case, patient.”
“Yes?”
The professor had been deep in conversation with Mom, but he suddenly shifted topics and addressed me directly.
“Soon, when the Korea Disease Control Agency conducts your examination, their representatives may be present.”
“Oh… really?”
It was essentially a heads-up that not only hospital staff but also government officials might show up. Even so, I reacted with complete indifference. What difference would it make if more people were watching? That was the numb feeling that came over me.
“Given that your gender has changed, they will of course check whether this deviates from previously documented cases of the disease. However, based on our findings, aside from the gender alteration, your symptoms align precisely with Beast Disease cases reported overseas. Overseas interest is likely to follow shortly, which could lead to substantial offers from international pharmaceutical companies. Naturally, you would be free to review any proposals and sign with them at that time.”
He made a sharp turn of the wheel, explaining the similarities between my symptoms and overseas cases of Beast Disease, then casually laid out potential future developments as though discussing someone else’s problem.
“Wouldn’t that be a loss for the hospital?”
The long, refreshingly candid explanation left me feeling strangely bold enough to ask. From everything he’d said, I was clearly a valuable research subject—someone the hospital seemed eager to keep by offering every possible benefit.
“Regardless, you are still a minor, and I must emphasize that we exercise no coercive measures. While we have obtained several consent forms, those are essentially confirmations that we will not misuse your personal information. They do not constitute research consent or contractual agreements.”
Once again he launched into a lengthy explanation, repeatedly stressing the complete absence of coercion.
“If I were to misspeak here and that statement were recorded, I would be heading straight to prison. Personally, I would of course prefer that you remain under our hospital’s care, but any phrasing that even suggests such pressure is ab-so-lute-ly unacceptable.”
He emphasized the point by slicing his raised arm through the air, as though the very idea violated basic medical ethics. The world of doctors seemed far more complicated than I’d imagined. I’d half-expected something out of a manhwa—maybe a briefcase full of cash.
Beyond the heavily tinted rear windows, the unfamiliar scenery gradually gave way to familiar buildings near our apartment complex.
“I will contact you again shortly.”
“Thanks for everything—”
“Thank you.”
The car stopped in front of our building. I was able to slip inside humming a little tune, barely having to show my face in public. The unexpected allowance of seventy-four thousand won had my mind spinning with pleasant thoughts about how I might spend it at the school store.