Han River View, Greenery View. Money.
Han River view, greenery view. Money.
I love money. No, love isn't quite enough. If I had to put my true feelings into words...
"……Love. Yeah, that hits the mark."
I loved money more than any woman. Money is power. Money is everything. There's nothing money can't buy. If you can't afford it, you just don't have enough of it.
My bank balance, stocks, and coins—numbers too vast to tally... Beautiful figures shimmer before my eyes. I close them, and the image of my final unrequited love sharpens into focus. The one I'd craved but could never claim. That sleek, intense crimson red loop line. The Tesla Roadster with a zero-to-sixty in 1.1 seconds.
It's probably been delivered by now...
The late-summer apple glow of its radiant, seductive body lines curves a smile onto my lips. Powered by SpaceX rocket tech...
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"The lady has arrived! Open the door!"
"The lady has arrived!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"……Bell. Just ring the damn bell."
The pounding on the hospital door shatters the Roadster cruising the beach like cigarette smoke on the wind. I let out a short sigh, opening my eyes. The intercom screen shows knights in full armor.
A modern hospital flanked by knights standing at precise intervals in their heavy plate. No matter how many times I see it, the sight makes my head spin.
To put it simply: I'd been transported to another world. Hospital and all.
Just a month ago, I had nothing to envy.
A premium apartment in Seongsu-dong with views of Sauron Tower and the Han River. Exotic supercars most people couldn't touch in a lifetime. And watches on my wrist worth as much as those cars.
"Good morning, Director."
"Yeah. Rwanda single-origin hand drip."
"Right away."
I head into my office, leaving Lee Manager to run the coffee errand.
"New builds really are the best."
The floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk frame the Han River view. As the saying goes, life is either Han River view or Han River plunge—and the river's always right.
Koreans have a special fondness for certain professions. The so-called "S" jobs: doctors, lawyers, prosecutors. But if you break it down, doctors—especially surgeons—crush the rest. Lawyers struggle outside big firms. Prosecutors and judges drown in abuse and paperwork, barely scraping by to old age.
Not every doctor rides high, though. Outside plastic surgery, they're just solid pros at best.
"Wonder if Director Park's gone even balder?"
Take the internist next door—barely past forty, but stress has turned his scalp to a mirror shine. His follicles couldn't keep up. Not that I'm knocking other fields. Just stating facts.
And my field? Plastic surgery specialist. Think about why they call us gods of medicine, and it'll click.
Trauma surgeons run ragged on protein-bar diets, saving lives without a thank-you. But plastic surgeons? We're revered as alchemists of grace, miracle golden hands—practically gods on par with the Creator. Turning nothing into something, re forging the new. Omnipotence incarnate.
……They must be grateful. Eternally so.
Who wouldn't bow to the magic of threads to curves, squares to triangles? Even I, the surgeon, sometimes marveled at my own results.
Not that I look down on my clients—no, patients... I hope. Wanting beauty isn't a sin. In this world, beauty is wealth and power—even kids know that.
All creatures, humans included, have DNA that sparks protective instincts in infants. Even babies distinguish pretty from plain in their gurgles.
Show a strange face to a child: the pretty one or the average? They'll smile at the former. Helping those driven to improve? That's my noble calling.
Anyway, showered in love from countless pa—patients, I'd amassed a fortune in my early thirties that most never touch.
Not that I'm flawless. Tall, handsome, but an orphanage kid. Sure, it stung as a child, but whatever. No longing for parents who ditched me in a subway stall. And hey, these genes? Profitable inheritance.
You gotta be born to do anything.
"But why's she taking so long?"
My hospital's fully built, equipped, pristine—no opening yet. The elegant North Ireland-style cafe on the first floor for VIPs is primed to rake in cash. Just needs the sign. Can't use it pre-launch, though.
Lee Manager could brew downstairs, but I prefer experts for everything. Top-tier only.
Still, this is weird. Five-minute walk to the cafe, hand drip or not—thirty-seven minutes?
"Never this late... Hm?"
The office phone rings. Only Lee Manager knows the direct line.
She's no slouch either.
Click.
"Lee Manager, hunting civet cats? What the hell's taking..."
"Director! Why aren't you picking up?!"
Lee Manager yelling? At me? Something's wrong. She's ice-cool, never cracks—even after years together. Bonus was recent, so not money. Must be an emergency.
"Director!"
Her shrill scream confirms it.
"Lee Manager, calm down. What happened?"
"Get out of the hospital now! The phone disaster alert! You need to see..."
Shrieeeek!
Her scream hits as I drop the receiver, reeling into unconsciousness.
"……Ugh, LOC?"
I haul myself off the floor, confirming the loss of consciousness. Quick status check.
"Memory of incident." Check.
"Scene memory." Check.
"Vitals." Stable. Pulse, BP, breathing—all good. But...
"Me, fainting? Could be traumatic. Book psych consult. Tell Lee Manager to..."
I freeze. The call cut off mid-scream.
She's worried sick. But I'm a doctor. Prime condition for patients means prioritizing my health. Early bird gets the worm—and health lets you crash early, rise early.
Guaranteed rest, routine flex life raking cash. That's my ideal.
"Head CT, EKG, bloods first."
Could be head trauma—needs close observation if so.
"……Nah. Call Lee Manager first."
Doc protocol screams rest, but I feel great. Crystal clear, even. Her scream echoes, so I prioritize her.
I'm quick to act. Grab receiver, dial.
"Why... no sound?"
Try again. Nothing. No tone.
Something's off.
Blinding sun through bars—I hadn't noticed. Lights out, ever-on air purifier dead. Power outage?
Click-click. PC, switches—dead.
Breaker tripped? Stress surges.
"What kind of sloppy construction? Blackout in a hospital? Mid-surgery, that's malpractice!"
Dig for phone to yell at contractors—no dice. Probably in the car. Stress creases my brow, but I smooth it. Frowning ages you. Good face, good skin draws clients.
"Hoo... Minho, relax. Relax. Building's not collapsing. You've still got river view."
Deep belly breaths to the window. Ease vessels, lower BP. Fling open blackout curtains for cool, lush...
"Hm? Why's it... green?"
Hallucination? The blue isn't river—it's trees. Rub eyes. The massive window shows dense green foliage, not Han River blue.
"……Where is it? My river view, my Han River vieeeeew!!!"
That day marked the end of my Han River view—and the arrival of greenery.