Chapter – 64
Guardian
His voice was grave. Yet his calm, almost indifferent composure made Younghoon’s eyes sharpen dangerously.
“Honestly, it would be better to operate immediately rather than leave things as they are. Even so, the timing has already passed, so it’s difficult to predict the outcome. Above all, the patient herself said she would not undergo surgery. We can’t very well ask an unconscious patient for consent, can we?”
Ha. Younghoon let out a hollow laugh, clicking his tongue. His bloodshot eyes radiated a ferocity that bordered on menace.
“So you’re saying we should just stand by and watch?”
“There’s nothing more we can do.”
“That sounds to me like you’re waiting for her to die.”
When Younghoon’s eyes flashed, the attending physician met his gaze calmly, as if this were a familiar situation—one he had encountered countless times with critically ill patients.
In a softer tone, the doctor asked,
“Are you the patient’s guardian?”
Guardian.
Damn it.
Younghoon’s jaw twitched as he smiled bitterly. The word alone made him sick—applied to a wretch who had never once protected his own family.
“If we have the legal guardian’s consent, we can consider it. The patient only verbally refused surgery; there’s no written record.”
A deep furrow carved itself between Younghoon’s brows. He knew the doctor was doing his best. He wasn’t ignorant of that.
But standing at the edge between life and death, he had no desire to sympathize with someone who clung only to principles and procedures.
“The legal guardian is a gambler whose whereabouts are unknown. And you’re still going to talk about procedure? Are you going to delay the surgery and let the patient die?”
Younghoon’s pupils narrowed like awls. Veins bulged atop his clenched fist.
“What exactly are you implying? That the hospital is abetting her death?”
Their gazes collided head-on.
Younghoon stared straight into the eyes of the white-haired doctor—seasoned, stubborn eyes. Over them overlapped the image of her face, the one that had calmly spoken of parting.
Just like back then, he realized it again.
There was nothing he could do here.
And that this kind of argument would solve absolutely nothing.
He dropped his head. When he raised it again, anguish trembled in his eyes.
“No,” he said.
His low voice was steeped in helpless resignation. The sharp edge in his gaze was gone.
“I’m asking you to acknowledge the wishes of a patient who wanted to live.”
“……”
“I’m asking you, as a doctor, to do everything you can to save her. And the patient—”
Younghoon recalled the gentle smile that had once bloomed across her face.
Had she been smiling back then, swallowing her pain?
Had she dared to hope that she might get better?
I want to live.
That foolishly kind face was achingly missed.
Slowly, Younghoon opened his mouth. His eyes, clouded with sorrow, wavered.
“She wanted to live.”
“……”
“Truly.”
The more he thought about the miracle she might have hoped for, the more it felt like his chest was being scraped raw. Younghoon bowed his head again.
“Hm.”
The doctor averted his gaze, staring off into the distance. Then he shook his head and looked back at Younghoon with pity.
“Emotionally, I understand. But I am only a doctor. Due to principles and procedures, I regret that I cannot help you.”
Younghoon lifted his gaze the moment he heard that.
“Then let’s do this.”
He took a breath. His broad shoulders slowly rose. Watching him, the doctor unconsciously inhaled as well.
“Patient Sa Eunhee—”
“……”
“She refused surgery because she believed there were other treatment options. Therefore, it’s difficult to interpret her refusal as acceptance of death.”
The skin beneath the doctor’s eyes trembled slightly. He was carefully considering Younghoon’s words.
“At present, there are no alternatives to surgery. If she were conscious, she would undoubtedly consent. Because the patient—”
Her wish for an ordinary life drifted through the silence. Younghoon pictured the two of them sitting close together on a two-seater sofa.
It felt as though hundreds of thorns were lodging themselves in his throat. Swallowing the pain, he forced the words out.
“She wanted to live.”
His eyes were clearer than before—filled with conviction. With certainty, he drove the final nail home.
“Which means the patient implicitly consented to the surgery.”
“……”
“Will that suffice?”
In the stillness, their gazes locked.
Younghoon knew it.
The doctor feared the responsibility he would bear if he operated without consent.
But if Younghoon’s interpretation stood, the doctor could be free of that burden.
After a moment, the doctor closed his eyes tightly, as if he finally understood. Opening them with resolve, he said,
“Then I’ll proceed strictly according to principles and procedure, as I’ve stated.”
He wet his dry lips and exhaled deeply, as if steeling himself. Then he spoke firmly to the medical staff behind him.
“Prepare for surgery.”
The surgery proceeded swiftly. Eunhee had been hospitalized for weeks, so all necessary tests had already been completed.
Younghoon waited at the entrance to the operating room for Eunhee to arrive.
Soon, the heavy doors of the patient elevator opened. Two sturdy men pushed the transport bed from either end.
And between them lay Eunhee.
As if the scene were playing in half-speed, her figure entered Younghoon’s vision in slow motion.
Her body, attached to countless devices, looked cold—almost like a part of the machinery itself.
Pain twisted Younghoon’s face. Staggering toward her, low groans spilled from his lips.
“…Sa Eunhee.”
His large fingertips traced her face. He wanted to feel even the faintest breath, but from the face covered by the oxygen mask, only coldness lingered.
“…It’s me.”
Instead, he loosely grasped her limp hand. Even wrapped in medical equipment, it remained devoid of warmth.
With a trembling breath, he asked,
“Does it… hurt a lot?”
If only you were closing your eyes on purpose—pretending not to see me because you hated me.
Younghoon leaned close to her unconscious face, pleading. Gently, tenderly, he whispered,
“You’ll be asleep for a while, okay?”
His voice brushed her ear with care. One of the medical staff glanced nervously at the electronic clock on the wall as the numbers changed.
“You’ve been in pain for so long… so you can rest now. But—”
The bed reached the operating room doors. One of the men pushing it stretched out his arm, signaling they couldn’t wait any longer. As he stepped between them, Younghoon asked, as if demanding a promise,
“Don’t go anywhere while you’re sleeping. Don’t get distracted, okay? Just take a short nap and come back. Promise.”
The operating room doors opened. The wheels of the bed began to roll quickly.
Just before the doors closed, Younghoon’s eyes flew open.
Her neatly lined eyelashes were trembling.
I want to live.
That tiny tremor felt like her desperate cry to live.
She had heard him.
His face crumpled with remorse.
Yes. Let’s live.
His body sank slowly to the floor. Dropping to his knees, teeth clenched, Younghoon shouted to Eunhee.
If the world beyond your consciousness is too dark,
if you don’t know which way to go—then wait.
My cries will spread like wildfire, and someday reach you.
Follow that sound and come back.
As long as you remain there,
my sorrow will never cease.
Plop.
A single hot tear fell onto the cold floor.
Younghoon remained before the closed doors for a long, long time.
