Yes. I Am Human
"Whoa… Winy… Winy… Hyung-nim, how did you even come up with a name like that?"
Jihun's mockery drifted into my ears as I busied myself preparing for today's procedure, as always. If I wasn't imagining it, there was a delicate dash of genuine disbelief blended into that mockery.
"I mean, I seriously freaked out when I heard the etymology? You named it Winy because you'd WIN against the Echo? And then you announced it, proudly? On a live broadcast?"
"Hey… the AI complimented it, okay…"
"'Wow! What a refreshingly original word!' — that's the kind of pity-praise you got, right?"
"Tsk."
I turned away from Jihun. Honestly, I thought it was a great name. Intuitive, easy to pronounce, pleasant to the ear. So why did everyone around me react like this?
Wait a second. But then it occurred to me that the medical world had always been a conservative, humorless crowd to begin with.
"Hey, Jihun. The more I think about it, the more I feel like medical people are just way too up their own asses. Regular folks will appreciate it—"
"It became a meme on the gallery, Hyung-nim. If you want to check and be even more miserable, go ahead — I won't stop you."
"…"
The world really was beyond saving. Nobody appreciated my exceptional linguistic genius.
"Still, it's similar to 'wiki'… Winy, wiki. It rolls right off the tongue, feels kind of friendly, easy to search, good accessibility—"
"If it were me, I'd have named it BEAST (Bio-Entity Assessment & Survival Tactics)."
"I would've gone with ESG (Emergency Survival Guide)."
The Department Chair, checking the patient list outside the procedure room, chimed in. Damn it. Hearing those concrete alternatives, I kind of felt like Winy really was a bad name. But it was far too late to take it back — the name had already spread across the entire globe. All I could do was stick out my lips in protest.
"Hey, what kind of grown man sulks over a snack?"
"I'm not sulking."
"Say that with your lips back to normal, you brat."
The Chair spun his chair around with a creak and laughed. He hadn't even bothered to get up, snacking on the treats stocked on the shelf right behind him.
"Those are mine. Ask permission before you eat them," I replied, counting the propofol ampoules for anesthesia.
"Man, you're seriously petty. Do you know how much one of these costs?"
"A delicate man's heart isn't cheap either, sir."
"Wow, I think this every time I hear it — how can you spew such cringe-worthy lines with a straight face?"
I shrugged. "No father around, so I had to get shameless like this to survive."
"Pff—!"
"Hey, those cookies are precious. I bought them at the duty-free shop coming back from the conference in Japan."
"Okay, okay, my bad — just don't sneak in a guilt jab like that."
The Chair surrendered instantly. My unbeaten streak in arguments continued today as well. He hastily wet his throat with coffee and changed the subject.
"Ah, Jung-wook. By the way, I haven't seen Si-ho around lately. Did you two fight?"
"How do you leap to that conclusion?"
"She said she'd be guarding you, didn't she? Said she'd protect you until this Hippocrates guy is found."
He wasn't wrong. Si-ho had certainly said that. She'd promised to personally protect me — the man who'd become a central figure in the Echo crisis — insisting that since she was a professional at keeping people safe, she'd stay by my side so I could treat my patients in peace.
"Ah, you mean Si-ho. She got summoned to the National Assembly audit."
"Why? Did she do something wrong— ah."
The Chair seemed to remember her affiliation a beat later, nodding with a look of understanding. Si-ho had been a member of the Bureau's Suppression Department. Ever since she publicly revealed her identity in the emergency room that day, the entire nation's eyes had fixed on her. Maybe it was an inevitable reaction — aside from me, who was still hiding my identity as '0000.0 — Hippocrates', she was the person officially best positioned to know about this whole affair.
The powers that be, desperate to keep a society on the verge of collapse from actually collapsing, would never simply leave her alone.
"Isn't today the first day of the National Assembly audit? Is it live right now?"
The Chair nodded and picked up his tablet, tapping a few times before turning the NuTube stream toward us. There was still a little time before our patient arrived, so we decided to watch her hearing for a moment. And the instant the screen came on, what greeted us was Si-ho, chin propped on the witness desk, mid-yawn. Dressed in a black suit, she wasn't even attempting to hide her boredom.
"I can't watch any more of this, sir. It's painful just watching."
I turned away. Looking at the screen made my chest tighten. I'd held out faint hope, but of course. Decades had passed, and what politicians cared about still wasn't truth or problem-solving — only their own gains and losses, and the votes of the next election.
And watching Si-ho stand there in that black suit, being reprimanded before the assemblymen… It reminds me of Mom, who had to attend her audits wearing mourning clothes.
I was struggling. It wasn't a pleasant memory, and I had no desire to relive those years. I tried to tear my eyes from the screen. That was when an extraordinary answer came through the tablet's speakers.
[No, a patient showed up, and there was a specialist at the hospital, so I went to the hospital. If an assemblyman had proven himself to be the expert on live TV, I'd have gone to the assemblyman's house instead.]
?
I looked back at the screen. It was Si-ho's voice. Still resting her chin on the desk, she was gazing at the assemblyman as if he were some strange creature.
"Pff."
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Watching her fire off, with perfect aim, everything I'd wanted to say, the gloom that had settled over me melted away like snow. Even the weight pressing on my chest felt lighter.
I wish Mom could have stood that tall, too.
What a bitter irony it was — that with the world falling apart, people could actually stand up straight for once. Maybe when there's nothing left to lose, fear disappears with it.
At some point, I found I couldn't look away from the video. On screen, she was still trading blows with the assemblymen, and I watched her with something like admiration.
"Hey, Jung-wook. Patient's here."
The Chair's voice pulled me back to reality. "…Right."
Still, before the patient arrived, he paused the video on the scene where she'd made her entrance. I looked once more at her annoyed expression frozen on the screen, then set the tablet down.
"Yes, could I have your name, please? Yes, I've confirmed your patient number as well. You remember what you're here for today, correct? Yes — you're here for a PCI (percutaneous coronary intervention), right? You remember me, don't you? I'll be performing your procedure today."
After that day's procedures ended, whenever I found a spare moment, I searched for footage of her hearing. Between ward rounds, while organizing charts, even over lunch. I replayed the sight of Si-ho sparring with the assemblymen over and over. I'm not entirely sure why.
On my way to the wards for afternoon rounds, I stopped by the outpatient clinic to pick up the residents. But as I reached the clinic door, voices — a man's and a woman's — drifted out from beyond it, and I froze mid-step. Instinctively holding my breath, I brought my ear to the examination room door.
"Our professor draws aggro way too hard. The entire country is looking for him and only him. And I'm the one who has to sit there fielding every single one of them. I'm losing my mind, seriously."
"Hey, at least you're learning something underneath him. Later on you could even open a private practice specializing in Entity cases. Me? I'm in the ER, totally unrelated, and patients come hunting for me — you know what they say? 'Where's Professor Lee Jung-wook?' It's chaos. Why are people looking for a cardiologist in the emergency room?"
The man's voice belonged to a resident from our department — our adorable second-year, Song-woo. The woman's voice, though, I didn't recognize. By the sound of it, an emergency medicine resident?
The outpatient clinic was empty during the lunch hour. A man and a woman, chatting away in that quiet space. Hmm. I had a pretty good idea what was going on.
I pulled out my phone and texted Song-woo.
The read receipt popped up immediately, and at the same moment, a crash echoed from inside the exam room. A chair toppling, a frantic scramble to gather things, plastic lids flying everywhere — from the sound of it, the two of them had been eating lunchboxes together. My guess: given the ER's comparatively decent work-life balance, the lunchbox was hers.
I quietly retreated toward the outpatient center entrance to put some distance between us, then strolled down the corridor with all the leisure of a man who had just arrived.
Creeeak—
"See you later!"
The exam room door burst open in a panic and the ER resident bolted out. If my memory served, she was a third-year — a resident with a reputation for being sharp. Quick with her work, too; I'd always thought well of her. The moment she spotted me walking over from the entrance, her face went rigid. But she quickly recovered and greeted me with an awkward smile.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
"Hey, keep up the good work."
I nodded breezily and walked past. I asked no questions about why an emergency medicine resident was emerging from a cardiology outpatient exam room in the middle of the day.
It's the peak of youth, after all. Not that I'd ever had that kind of youth… damn it. Anger welled up from somewhere deep in my gut.
I couldn't very well torment the woman from another department, so I resolved to torment the man instead. Song-woo, I know you work hard, but let's do a little studying, shall we?
Knock knock. "Song-woo. Rounds."
"Yes, Professor."
Second-year Song-woo followed me out wearing a perfectly composed face — a flawless performance, aside from his ears turning slightly red. Suppressing a grin, I listened to his patient report.
"Room 725, 75-year-old male, diagnosed with mitral valve regurgitation 10 years ago and followed in outpatient care, developed atrial fibrillation 5 years ago and has been on warfarin. Persistent NYHA class III dyspnea over the past 6 months led to the decision for intervention; admitted 2 days ago through the clinic. BP 110/70, pulse 95, respiratory rate 20. Fine crackles in both lower lung fields and lower extremity edema present."
"Feels like your report's missing something? I put that patient on procedure pending, didn't I. You were about to skip past explaining why."
"My apologies, Professor." Song-woo hastily flipped through the chart. "The patient has been febrile at 38.5 degrees since last night, and this morning's labs showed a WBC of 14,500 and CRP of 6.8, both elevated. Urinalysis showed pyuria, so you held the procedure on suspicion of a urinary tract infection."
"Correct. He spiked a fever the night before the procedure. Operating on a patient like that risks immediate sepsis. The odds are low, but at his age we have to be careful. And the cultures?"
"Blood and urine cultures are in process, results pending. Empiric antibiotics — ceftriaxone 1g IV once daily — are running, adjusted for renal function."
"Perfect, Song-woo."
I gave his shoulder a satisfied pat. That was enough tormenting. I kept listening to his reports on the remaining patients as we headed for the lobby.
While I pressed the elevator button and waited in the lobby, the news playing on the large wall-mounted television naturally caught my eye.
"Uh…? Yongsan?" Song-woo's voice trembled.
"About time the incubation periods started running out."
Song-woo was flustered. In contrast, I was utterly calm — there was no reason to be surprised by something I'd already expected. The Most Romantic Choice and Digital Portrait had almost no incubation periods, so they'd surfaced quickly, but most Echoes carry one. It varied wildly by type, but on average, an Echo's incubation ran two to three months.
In other words, the hour had arrived for the Entities that had been hiding their bodies to show themselves.
"Looks like things blew up in Yongsan…" I clicked my tongue at the screen. "I told them to prepare."
For the record, I had warned them, clearly. On the day Gu Jihye's treatment — that is, the Digital Portrait case — was completed and we held the press conference, I'd told them exactly this: outbreaks like this would erupt on a nationwide scale, there was about a month left, and they needed to prepare thoroughly starting now. I definitely said it.
But South Korea was not a country that liked preparing for things in advance. When Entities first appeared, everyone panicked — but once a single big one was overcome, spending budget on something that hadn't happened yet started to feel like a waste. The public lost interest almost immediately, and the politicians were too busy worrying about other things.
Even after the founding of Winy was first floated, progress had been halfhearted — proof enough. Forget a budget; staffing was never properly filled, the system's construction crawled along, and I'd been granted no authority whatsoever.
"Tsk. Knew it would come to this."
In the end, the crisis had arrived without proper preparation — exactly as I'd feared. That was when Song-woo fidgeted beside me and spoke up.
"Professor, this isn't the time for rounds, shouldn't we run too? If it's Yongsan, it'll reach our hospital any minute—"
"Even if I'd already died a month ago, I came here planning to die here. And, Song-woo."
"Yes?"
"The moment you set foot in this hospital, there was never any chance of being safe from the Echoes."
Song-woo stared at me, speechless. Unfortunately for him, I had no lip service to offer my residents. What place on earth brims with more dramatic narrative than a hospital — than the profession of doctor? A place where life and death cross paths, where hope and despair coexist. It was the stage Echoes loved best.
It was already too late. If you were going to run, you should have run a month ago. Run now, and you'd only be dragged back, or meet a miserable ending all on your own. The Entities and Echoes are obsessive things — they don't give up just because you've left the premises.
"Don't sneak off somewhere I can't help you. Just walk out through the front door. At the very least, I'll keep you alive."
"Professor… that is not comforting at all."
"Huh? I thought it was?"
I said it with a lazy grin and turned back to the news. On screen, soldiers were firing concentrated volleys into a pack of Entities. A rabbit-like Entity writhed under a hail of bullets, its snow-white fur staining red.
TA-ANG— ratatatat—
The rabbit-Entity's body convulsed, then went limp. Through the drone footage, one thing came through vividly: modern conventional firepower still worked on Entities. Even the anchor delivered a hopeful message on that basis.
[Citizens, please do not approach the area under any circumstances, and shelter indoors until further instructions from the authorities.]
"Huh? They're holding up better than I expected."
"We'll see."
Despite the news's optimistic spin, I remained unimpressed. With no proper response manual for the Echoes prepared, I could see exactly what would follow.
I checked the elevator again. Still not arriving. So I turned my attention back to the screen — where a newly appeared tiger Entity was tearing soldiers limb from limb.
GRRAOOWR—!
A tiger a full five meters long reared up on its hind legs and roared, then began hurling soldiers around like toy dolls. The hail of bullets was useless. So were the grenades. The thing didn't so much as scratch — if anything, every attack only swelled its bulk further. The tiger slaughtered the soldiers, then finally hurled a corpse at the drone overhead. The image lurched violently and the feed cut out.
The lobby fell into silence. Even the anchor seemed at a loss for words, staring at the black, signal-lost screen without speaking. Watching that scene, a sigh escaped me on its own.
Sigh… with a commander that incompetent… who the hell is the one commanding those poor soldiers?
I didn't know who the commander was, but one thing was certain: they hadn't checked the online communities or the game databases. If they had, they would never have drawn up an operation that stupid. Or maybe the commander isn't an idiot — just a fossil. That'd explain it too.
Granted, modern conventional firearms do work on Entities. But the difference between one Entity and the next was heaven and earth. Digital Portrait, for instance, was at best a slightly enhanced serial killer — ordinary rifles were more than enough to handle it.
But certain Entities cannot be destroyed even by a nuclear bomb unless a specific narrative or condition is satisfied. Those must be countered by means other than brute force. The tiger rampaging across the screen right now was the textbook example.
The Human-Faced Tiger…
I couldn't recall its Entity number, but the name I remembered with perfect clarity. Its ability: flaying human skin to disguise itself. And once the disguise was exposed, an absurdly powerful tiger burst out — just like that. That tiger absolutely could not be subdued by ordinary physical force. I knew because the Management Bureau had tested every weapon imaginable trying to capture it. Unless its narrative weakness was found, not even a bomber could bring it down.
I swallowed the bitterness curling at the tip of my tongue and resolved to focus on my own work.
"Song-woo. Elevator's here. Let's g—"
That was when it happened.
TA-ANG!
A gunshot rang out. Not from the television speakers — from the hospital lobby itself. For an instant, every sound vanished beneath the thunderclap that slammed into my ears. My mind went white. My body froze on pure instinct. Someone's scream dragged me back to reality.
"H…hands up! Hand over the anti…antibiotics and anything useful, now!"
The voice was cracked — fear and desperation tangled together. Slowly, I turned my head toward where the shouting came from.
Blood-soaked soldiers were aiming their muzzles at civilians. Three — no, four of them. Their uniforms were torn, faces and bodies drenched in fresh blood. None of the wounds looked fatal, but their faces looked ready to burst into tears at any moment.
"Everybody down! Doctors only — bring out antibiotics and antiseptics! And… painkillers too! Move!"
The man who appeared to be the squad leader was screaming hysterically. His hands were shaking; the muzzles swung erratically.
"You think I won't?! I'll shoot, I swear I'll shoot!"
Blood-soaked soldiers carrying live rounds. And in this crisis, in a state of panic. Combining the keywords alone, I understood the situation in a flash.
Desertion. Apocalypse. Survival.
"What are you looking at! Where do you keep the medicine! You there, Professor! You guide us!"
The squad leader swung his muzzle toward me. Maybe thirty meters. His eyes were bloodshot, his finger resting on the trigger.
Only then did it truly sink in.
The world was really ending.