What's That?
Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick!
"...W-what the hell? Even the elevator's busted?"
No matter how many times he checked—and double-checked—the view through the floor-to-ceiling glass was still a sea of unrelenting greenery. Not the lush river view of the Han River, but some unfamiliar greenbelt wilderness that looked straight out of a nature documentary. And across what should have been the vast expanse of the Han, where the riverside expressway and Seongsu-dong stood, loomed a massive tower roughly the height of his hospital, flanked by low, alien-looking buildings flickering into view.
"What in the...?"
He rubbed his eyes, pinched his cheeks—still no Han River. His mind only grew hazier. He'd left his phone in the car, so gauging the situation was impossible right now. To get to the underground parking, he needed the elevator, but even that was dead.
"...Relax. Minho Kim, relax. Pulse and blood pressure are spiking. Stay calm."
His smartwatch—the one he always wore except during seminars or public events—blared his skyrocketing vitals. Stress was the root of all evil. He started deep belly breathing to steady himself.
"Damn it... Stairs it is."
Steel resolve set, he pushed open the emergency stairwell door and began his slow descent to the parking garage. Most people overlooked it, but unlike climbing stairs—which reduced heart attack risk and boosted lower-body strength and cardio—going down wrecked your knees.
He was the kind of man who greeted clients—no, patients—in peak condition. He even micromanaged stair navigation for that. And now here he was, ditching the elevator for stairs.
"Hoo... Lacking cardio? Only halfway down and I'm already winded."
To him, the ultimate number was 11. The start of all numbers, symbolizing the absolute pinnacle. That's why he'd built his new 11-story comprehensive hospital as a "tower among towers."
Problem is, the director's office is on the 11th floor.
Only down to the 6th now, but sidestepping slowed him to a crawl. Still, no way was he risking a straight descent. His body was precious. Regular posture hammered the knees, so in emergencies like this, he twisted sideways for shock absorption. Crab-walking might feel undignified, but his knees came first. He had no desire to live like Charles Xavier, filthy rich but paralyzed. Maintaining belly breaths, he kept sidestepping down.
Heel-to-toe would help more with impact, but urgency overrode that. No time for perfection in this panic.
"...Hoo, haa."
Finally, the B2 parking level. Spotting his sole SUV among his ladies—the noble, radiant Bentley Bentayga—his vitals plummeted back to normal. The world's fastest SUV at 306 km/h max. A fitting companion for a man chasing the top.
Popping the door revealed his latest space-age foldable phone sprawled in the cupholder. Unfolding it like a book unleashed a torrent of missed calls, KakaoTalks, and disaster alerts demanding attention.
"Hoo... What the hell? Mostly from Manager Lee?"
But something was off. No signal.
"What is this...? No service in Korea? What the fuck?"
His cutting-edge phone worked in remote areas without cell towers—basically a satellite communicator like those clunky '90s models. Mountains, jungles, deserts, mid-ocean: satellites kept you connected. False advertising?
"Soon as I get out... new phone."
Swallowing his rage, he redialed Manager Lee—still nothing. Vowing to switch to a Samsung for good, he scrolled through KakaoTalk and texts. His eyes snagged on the emergency alerts.
[Korea Meteorological Administration] 3.8 magnitude earthquake in Gangnam-gu, Seoul. Exercise caution for aftershocks.
[Ministry of the Interior and Safety] 4.9 magnitude earthquake near the Han River in Gangnam-gu, Seoul. Exercise caution for aftershocks.
"No way... I felt a little shake, but an earthquake in Seoul? Weird."
He hadn't inspected the whole hospital, but no damage. Nothing toppled in his office. It was just a slight wobble—hardly enough to notice. Even stranger.
Scrolling like he did after international trips, he nearly dropped the phone at the last message.
"Wha—ack?!"
Heart pounding, he snatched the phone from under the seat with trembling hands. Had to confirm. Had to be sure.
[Seoul Metropolitan Government] Massive sinkhole expected near 190 Seonreung-ro 190-gil in Gangnam-gu. Nearby roads closed—expect congestion, detour advised.
...Sink... sinkhole?
His smartwatch screamed spiking blood pressure and pulse. Belly breathing couldn't touch it. His mind reeled.
"What is this, Guatemala? A sinkhole in downtown Gangnam?!"
Reading the alert over and over, "sinkhole" refused to compute. The hospital looked pristine—no cracks anywhere. Power outage aside, office, stairs, garage: all intact.
But the problem was...
That's my hospital's address. My hospital...
The Seoul city alert pinpointed his exact spot, followed by the central disaster HQ's message naming it outright.
First... get out. Can't do shit sitting here. Head out and assess.
A sinkhole in Gangnam's heart—prime Han River view in Cheongdam-dong? Like a monk belting hymns. Still January, breath fogging like a humidifier. April Fool's was months off—no prank.
Even if it was, sue their asses. But... why isn't it cold?
Midwinter, yet no chill. Hospital stayed climate-controlled, sure, but the garage? Heaters on? Or from descending 12 floors? That's when—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Anyone in there?!"
A sudden pounding at the hospital door. He hopped out, hyper-alert, creeping up to ground level.
For good reason.
Th-that language... I've never heard it before.
The accent—no, the language from outside wasn't Korean. Not English, French, Russian, or any Western tongue. Brand-new to his ears.
Yet he understood it perfectly.
...What the hell?
Even stranger: he felt like he could speak it back.
Vanished Han view, mystery language. Stunned, dazed—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Help! He's badly hurt!"
Doctor's instinct kicked in. The plea moved him first.
"Where's the injury... Whoa!"
Reaching the 1st-floor main entrance, he slammed on mental brakes. There stood a man who clearly shared DNA with The Undertaker, glaring with wild, bloodshot eyes. Propped on him: another hulking brute.
Brock... Lesnar?
Two wrestling legends' evil twins. He caught his breath, then zeroed in on the arm gushing blood.
Lesnar was the patient.
"Sliced his wrist by accident! Got a low-grade potion to sell?!"
"Pardon? Potion?"
Lesnar's pants soaked in blood, yet Undertaker demanded a "potion."
...Junkies?
He got the words, but not the meaning. Potion? Huh?
"Low-grade! Low-grade stamina potion?!"
Undertaker's eyes blazed, supporting Lesnar. Minho cut in firmly.
"Don't have any. Your friend's bleeding bad—treatment first. I'm a doctor."
"A doctor?!"
"Nooooo! Don't wanna lose it! No amputation!"
...?
His "doctor" reveal paled their faces—towering over his 183 cm. Quiet Lesnar wailed in hysterics.
"S-surgery needed?"
"Boss! I'm fine! Don't wanna lose my armmm!"
"Inside first. Stop the bleeding."
Nonsense, but bleeding mattered. He herded them to 1st-floor cafe chairs, dashed behind the counter.
Towels, spoons. Jackpot!
Wound at the wrist. Seemed minor, but Lesnar's clothes said massive blood loss—likely arterial.
Long towel and spoon in hand, he tourniqueted.
"H-hey! Wrong spot—higher up!"
Undertaker snarled as he bound below the wrist.
"I know. Tourniquet goes proximal to the bleed."
"Not at the blood but inside the body?!"
"Gaaah! Hurts! It huuuurts!"
Spoon over the first wrap, twist twice like wringing herbal decoction—Lesnar howled.
"Hey! He said it hurts! That won't stop the..."
Clockwise twists fixed spoon and towel. Bleeding slowed, beaded.
"Loose like that won't work."
"But he said..."
"Short pain beats death. Let's move."
"T-to where?"
"Suturing. Head there."
"No... really no amputation...?"
These guys. What did they think doctors were?
"If you want, I can cu—"
"N-no! Absolutely not!"
"Nooo! No cutting!"
"...Follow. If you hate amputation."
Leading them to the 4th floor. First surgery post-build: orthopedics, not plastics on 11. Unthinkable yesterday.
"Patient's name and blood type?"
"This guy's Ollie. Blood type... Ollie! What's yours?"
"Dunno! What's that?"
Goddamn it. Nothing straightforward.
"This way—no, that... Huh?"
Subconsciously elevator-bound, he veered to stairs—then glanced up.
Lights... the lights are on?
Power was back.