The Man Who Sold Out the Missing Names

I thought Han Jae-o's name would be at the very top of the recovery room queue.

Ten minutes later, the electronic display board swallowed his name whole.

Neither Han Jae-o nor Mun Ok-ja was on it.

In a hallway reeking of blood, titles that hadn't shed a single drop stood higher than actual human names. The boy who had rated his leg pain an eight just moments ago, and the elderly woman who had wrapped her blanket around a child while hiding the burns on her own arm, had been pushed off the screen entirely.

Cha Yu-ri's face hardened.

"Those two were just marked as priority admissions for the recovery room."

I was sitting just inside the threshold of the hospital room. I had already been told not to get up three times. Mungnoe was also strapped to the wall mount. The black handle was within arm's reach, but the straps holding it were so tight they creaked at the slightest tug.

"Who took them off?"

Cha Yu-ri blocked my path.

"If you get up right now, Tae-san, those people will just hide behind the excuse of an 'unexpected patient emergency' again."

Those words caught me before I could even move my wrists.

A place to hide.

The people who erased names always made sure to secure a hiding spot first. Behind contracts, behind glass walls, behind system errors. This time, it was behind an electronic display board.

At the end of the hallway, Yun Seo-ah stopped. She didn't look at me. She stared at the display board, then at the empty chairs, and finally at the droplets of water left on the floor.

"The smell of detergent," she said in a low voice.

The tracks led toward the laundry chute next to the lounge. Seo-ah didn't adjust her grip on her scabbard. Instead, she walked past the rows of chairs and asked:

"Who was the last person to guide Mun Ok-ja and Han Jae-o's guardian?"

The receptionist forced a smile.

"There was a system reclassification. If they were left out, we can register them again—"

"And if they register again, they'll be pushed to the back of the line," Seo-ah cut in.

Her voice wasn't loud. But this time, she didn't sound like someone begging for forgiveness. She sounded like someone determined to track down the people she had failed to protect.

Just then, the side door next to the recovery room opened.

A gray cart rolled out with a low squeak of its wheels. Atop the cart sat a stack of thin waiting tickets and a small printer. A neatly printed label was stuck to the front.

The man pushing the cart was Park Gyu-hyeon. The very name at the top of the display board. His suit sleeves were pristine, and a temporary guardian pass hung around his neck.

"This is a misunderstanding. We moved the patients to a separate stabilization area. The PR team is just here briefly to help stabilize the scene—"

Before he could even finish his sentence, Mun Ok-ja's voice echoed from the direction of the laundry chute.

"Over here."

Yun Seo-ah opened the door.

Mun Ok-ja was sitting in the narrow corridor behind the laundry cart. Her own shoulders were bare, having wrapped her blanket around the child. Beside her, Han Jae-o leaned against the wall, clutching his leg brace. Both of them had been moved far away from the recovery room entrance.

The air in the hallway shifted.

The victims hadn't been hiding.

Someone had swept them out of sight.

Park Gyu-hyeon tried to turn the cart around.

"We will re-verify the procedures and—"

"Bring that cart over here," I said.

Cha Yu-ri whipped her head around to look at me.

"Don't you dare get up."

"I'm not getting up."

Still sitting on the threshold of the hospital room, I reached out my right hand. The cart was passing right in front of my room as it rolled down the center of the hallway. Park Gyu-hyeon hadn't calculated the reach of my arm. He had assumed I was just another helpless patient.

The moment the cart's handle passed my doorway, I slammed my palm down on it.

Thud.

It wasn't a loud sound. Yet, the cart's front wheels ground to a halt as if they had been welded to the floor. The momentum Park Gyu-hyeon had been using to push the cart rebounded straight back through the handle. His elbows buckled, and the metal axle beneath the cart bent out of shape.

Screeech.

The printer cover popped open, spilling waiting tickets and thin wristbands all over the floor.

Beneath them, two crumpled slips of paper fluttered down a moment later.

Everyone in the hallway saw it.

I hadn't laid a finger on anyone. But the cart that had been used to sell out people's names could no longer roll. With its wheels bent, it lay there, vomiting up the stolen waiting tickets.

Park Gyu-hyeon clutched his wrist and collapsed to the floor.

"This is property damage! A patient just—"

"You were the one pushing it," I said.

"The force you used to push aside other people's names just rebounded back into your own hands."

A quiet hush fell over the hallway.

As Park Gyu-hyeon tried to stand, Baek Ha-rin's scabbard came down right in front of him. The blade remained hidden. She had merely blocked his path with the scabbard, yet he froze, unable to move another inch.

"Pick them up before you go," Baek Ha-rin said.

"The names you sold out."

Her words were blunt. And because of that, everyone understood exactly what she meant.

Yun Seo-ah supported Mun Ok-ja's arm. Once again, she didn't look in my direction. Instead, she spoke to Mun Ok-ja.

"I am sorry for the delay. I will escort you back to the front of the line."

"It's not your fault, Hunter," Mun Ok-ja said.

At her words, Seo-ah's hands faltered for a brief second.

"Even so, I won't let you be pushed aside this time."

That response was far more resolute than any apology.

Lee Na-gyeong stepped in front of the display board. She pulled out her terminal, but this time, she aimed its camera at the waiting tickets scattered on the floor before looking at the screen. The bent cart wheels, the spilled sponsor wristbands, and the crumpled, genuine name tags were all captured in a single frame.

"Reclassification authority suspended. The recovery room priority queue will be restored to its original state."

Her words were brief.

But the conclusion was already lying right beneath everyone's feet.

Han Mi-rae didn't bother picking up the payment terminal Park Gyu-hyeon had dropped. Instead, she looked down at the fake wristbands he was gathering on his knees.

"So, you took money for this."

Park Gyu-hyeon's face drained of color.

"The payment hasn't cleared yet."

"Even better. You got caught before you could receive it."

She didn't smile.

"I'll have the incoming funds redirected to the medical treatment fund. Under your name, of course. Well, PR Team Leader, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you certainly did a fantastic job of publicizing yourself today."

Low chuckles rippled through the crowd. Park Gyu-hyeon's ears flushed bright red.

Only then did Cha Yu-ri take my hand. Her eyebrows knitted together as she inspected my palm.

"You exerted yourself, didn't you?"

"The cart pushed first."

"Only someone who exerted themselves would give an excuse like that."

Her words were cold, but her touch was gentle. She supported my wrist from below rather than pressing on the center of my palm. It was also a subtle way of keeping me from reaching out toward the cart again.

Mun Ok-ja and Han Jae-o's names returned to the top of the display board.

But the first thing to move today wasn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the display board.

Park Gyu-hyeon knelt on the floor, picking up the scattered fake wristbands one by one. Words like PR Team Leader, Style Manager, and Sponsor Affiliate crumpled in his palms.

Mun Ok-ja stopped in front of the recovery room door and draped the blanket she had used to cover the child back over her own shoulders.

Han Jae-o looked at me, biting his lip.

"Hyung... is it okay for me to go in?"

"Your name was first," I said.

"Go on in."

The recovery room door slid open.

This time, it wasn't a sold-out name that entered first, but the injured.

The aftermath lingered even longer.

Park Gyu-hyeon kept ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gathering the fake wristbands in front of the display board. Every time he picked one up, Han Mi-rae's terminal chimed softly. Requests for advance sponsorship payments, priority admission agency fees, promotional shoot vouchers—none of it had anything to do with medical treatment.

"Read them aloud," Han Mi-rae commanded.

Park Gyu-hyeon looked up.

"Excuse me?"

"The things on the floor. Read them out loud in front of the patients. You need to know exactly what you sold so you won't ever try to sell it again."

Park Gyu-hyeon swallowed hard. For the first time, he actually looked at the people in the hallway. Until now, he had only looked at screens, carts, and passes. But standing right in front of him were the injured. Park Eun-hui with her bandaged arm, Kim Do-sik resting his feet on the wheelchair footrests, and the child clutching the blanket.

In a barely audible voice, he read:

"PR shoot waiting list."

The hallway was dead silent.

"Sponsor priority."

Mun Ok-ja heard those words from just inside the recovery room. She paused mid-step and turned back. Her face was exhausted, but her gaze did not waver.

"How much was my name worth?"

Park Gyu-hyeon couldn't answer.

I watched him from the threshold of my room.

"Answer her."

My words were brief.

Yet, Park Gyu-hyeon bit his lip. The hands that had been pushing the cart earlier were still trembling. It wasn't the trembling of someone struck by physical force, but of someone whose own force had rebounded back upon them.

"Three hundred thousand won."

Someone muttered a curse under their breath.

Mun Ok-ja didn't laugh.

"Then starting today, deduct the price of my name from your salary. I'm going in to get treated."

With that, she stepped inside the recovery room.

Han Jae-o glanced back at Park Gyu-hyeon as he followed her inside.

"I'm not giving you a discount either."

At that short remark, a chuckle finally broke out in the hallway. It was quiet but distinct. It wasn't a laugh of mockery, but a sigh of relief that came when a stolen place was finally returned.

Cha Yu-ri applied a patch to my wrist and spoke softly.

"It looks like the perpetrator felt more pain than the patient this time."

"The cart took the brunt of it."

"Carts can be fixed," she said, looking at the wristbands Park Gyu-hyeon was still picking up.

"But things like that aren't so easily repaired."

Mungnoe remained strapped to the wall, motionless. Yet, it felt as though its shadow stretched all the way to the end of the hallway. In the place where someone had tried to sell out names, the names that couldn't be bought entered through the door, one by one.

Yun Seo-ah remained in the hallway even after the recovery room door closed.

Below the display board, a small handwritten sign was still posted.

It was a sign posted by Lee Na-gyeong. But after staring at it for a moment, Seo-ah borrowed a pen and wrote another line beneath it.

Cha Yu-ri nodded as she saw it.

"That is a good rule."

Yun Seo-ah's hand paused.

"I learned too late that some things can only be protected if they are written down as rules."

She still didn't turn her gaze toward me. But her words weren't an attempt to run away. It was a promise that from now on, she would call out the names of the people she had failed to protect with her own voice.

Park Gyu-hyeon picked up the very last wristband. Han Mi-rae didn't hand the bundle back to him. Instead, she slipped them into a transparent bag and wrote in large letters on the front:

"Is this title a bit too direct?" she asked.

Baek Ha-rin replied.

"Make it even more direct. 'List of Human Trash.'"

Cha Yu-ri immediately interjected.

"We can't attach something like that to medical records."

"That's exactly why it's great."

A brief bickering match ensued. At the end of the hallway, the child let out a small giggle. Hearing the laugh, Mun Ok-ja waved from inside the recovery room.

I unclenched my hand as I watched the scene unfold.

There was no need to swing a hammer just to reclaim a name.

But I knew for certain that when someone tried to sell out a name, the consequences had to strike back hard enough to hurt.