This episode contains violence, strong language, and themes that may be disturbing to some readers. Viewer discretion is advised. (18+)
At only twenty-one years of age, Frankestein's name had already become a legend within the corridors of Bohanesa IV Hospital in Jakarta.
He was not only the youngest Director in the hospital's history but also a brilliant young doctor—too genius to be called merely talented. His academic record was flawless, his medical decisions precise, and his leadership cold yet indisputable.
His features looked as if they had been carved with the same meticulous detail he used to read a CT scan: sharp, symmetrical, and without defect.
His physique was proportional and commanding, always impeccably dressed in a white lab coat that clung perfectly to his shoulders. It was no wonder that countless eyes followed his every move, especially those of women who viewed him as the standard—a dream too high to reach, yet too beautiful to ignore.
However, to Frankestein, such interest was nothing more than a nuisance.
In his mind, women were complex creatures—difficult to understand, layered with unnecessary emotions. He chose to keep his distance, hiding behind a cold, flat, and nearly expressionless facade.
It was a mask that had never cracked, never wavered—until that night arrived.
His footsteps halted. His breath hitched without warning. His eyes, usually calm and controlled, widened as he stared at the small figure lying frail before him.
A child. Her face was pale, as if drained of all color, her lips trembling as though holding back tears she no longer had the strength to cry, while her tiny body shivered violently—as if wrapped in an invisible chill.
Victor immediately sensed it—the presence of someone standing at the threshold of Margaret's room. His swollen, bloodshot eyes turned to find Frankestein standing frozen, his eyes wide with shock.
With a sudden burst of movement, Victor ran. His steps were frantic, nearly stumbling, but the desperation in his chest was far stronger than the exhaustion in his body. In an instant, he was in front of Frankestein, his hands gripping the doctor's lab coat with a deathly tightness.
"Frankestein... please... I beg of you... help Margaret..."
Victor's voice shattered before the words could even fully leave his throat. The tremor was so violent, his voice fading in and out, choked by his own gasping breaths as if his lungs could no longer function. Panic and despair collided, suffocating him until he struggled to draw even a single breath.
The hands clutching Frankestein's coat shook uncontrollably. His fingers tensed, then weakened, as if his entire strength might collapse at any moment.
"I... I am truly... unfit to be a father... I was so foolish to leave her all the time, making her feel neglected... and now, because of me, she's like this..."
"I... I've done everything I could, everything I knew, everything you told me earlier... but... but... Margaret's condition is only getting worse..."
The tears that had initially pooled hesitantly in Victor's eyes finally gave way. The warm liquid surged, flowing too fast and too heavy, drenching his reddened cheeks and making the skin around his eyes swell with a stinging ache.
His breath hitched, his chest heaving irregularly, until finally, he broke—not into a neat or controlled sob, but a raw, agonizing wail, like the sound of someone losing their very last foothold.
"Please save Margaret, Frankestein... I beg of you..."
"I will pay you whatever you ask, as long as Margaret can recover, as long as she can smile again... please... please... Frankestein..."
Each word struggling to escape Victor's lips sounded chaotic and fragmented; some vanished before they could even be formed, swallowed by the rising tide of his wretched, pitiful sobs.
Frankestein stood motionless, even as Victor's grip tightened, bunching and pulling his lab coat until the fabric was hopelessly wrinkled. He heard it all—every word uttered, every sob that broke and caught in Victor's throat—not a single sound escaped him.
Yet, strangely, it all felt like noise coming from a great distance.
It wasn't that he didn't care, nor was he a stranger to grief or despair; he had witnessed too many bodies go limp, too many lives teetering on the edge, not to recognize such emotions.
But this time was different.
Something kept him anchored in silence, unresponsive and unable to utter a single word—and it had absolutely nothing to do with Victor.
His heart was pounding too fast, almost unnaturally so, every time his gaze inadvertently drifted to Margaret's face.
A strange tension radiated through his chest, a foreign sensation he had never encountered even in the most critical moments of the operating room. This wasn't empathy, it wasn't a professional urge, nor was it the usual pity that surfaced when he faced human suffering.
No—this was far more bewildering.
"What is this feeling?"
"Why have my knees gone weak, leaving me unable to move?"
"Why do I feel so angry seeing her lie there, so helpless?"
"Could it be... that I..."
His hands clenched into tight fists before he even realized it.
In one frantic, sharp intake of breath, he shook his head—once, then twice—with a hurried, almost violent motion. It was a desperate attempt to banish the strange, disturbing possibilities that had begun to run wild in his mind.
"It's impossible..."
"I'll lose my mind if that's truly what this is..."
His gaze slowly dropped, tracing the line of Victor's shoulders until it rested on the crown of his head, currently bowed and leaning against Frankestein's chest. Victor's shoulders continued to heave irregularly, each movement accompanied by a suppressed sob—weaker now, yet even more heartbreaking.
"Could you let me go, Hyung?"
"If you stay like this and I cannot move, how am I supposed to save Margaret?"
His voice was clear when it finally slipped from his lips—flat, measured, and almost entirely devoid of emotion.
The sound of Frankestein's voice snapped Victor back to his senses, as if he had only just realized he had been leaning on him for too long. He stepped back, his movements stiff and awkward, before finally tilting his head up. His gaze rose hesitantly, searching Frankestein's face.
"You can… you can do it, right?"
"You can save Margaret, can't you, Frankestein?"
The look in Victor's trembling eyes—a mixture of pleading, a thin glint of hope, and a heartbreaking streak of despair—made Frankestein draw a sharp breath.
His fingers clamped around Victor's hands, which were still clutching his lab coat, and with a slightly forceful motion, he pried them off.
"You should have called another doctor if her condition worsened, Hyung. Instead of waiting for me until this late at night."
Frankestein stepped into the room. Every movement should have been steady and controlled—just as it was when he paced the hospital corridors toward his patients.
But now, his steps felt different.
As he took a single stride forward, his heart hammered again—so violently that he could feel the pulse jolting through his entire chest. His brow furrowed, his lips thinned into a hard line, and though his pace slowed almost imperceptibly, he forced himself to keep moving.
The closer he drew to Margaret's bedside, the more his heart refused to settle.
A tremor radiated through his limbs, making his hands shake slightly and his knees feel dangerously weak, yet he fought to suppress it all. He kept his chin up, his gaze fixed straight ahead—sharp and cold.
But when he finally reached the edge of Margaret's bed and saw her pale frame, her trembling lips, and her body utterly drained of strength, the expression on Frankestein's face shifted abruptly.
He felt an urge to scream in rage.
His heart continued its wild thrashing, his breath hitched; he drew air in and out repeatedly, but nothing helped. He even choked on his own breath when he realized Margaret's eyes were slowly fluttering open. And when their gazes finally met, Frankestein held his breath.
"Wh... who are you?"
Margaret's voice finally broke through—hoarse and frail.
Her half-lidded eyes searched Frankestein, the figure standing before her with a rigid posture that radiated an unexplainable tension. It was clear to her that this was not her father.
Then, her eyes caught another detail: the clothes he was wearing.
"A doc... doctor?"
She looked back up at Frankestein's face, her gaze clouded with confusion, yet she couldn't suppress the spark of curiosity that began to burn slowly within her.
Frankestein remained silent. Utterly still.
His posture was rigid, but it felt as though all the energy that usually fueled his every move had been suddenly sucked into his own chest. No words, no movement—even his breath was nearly silent.
In that frozen silence, without him even realizing it, his briefcase slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
The sound immediately caught Margaret's attention. Her eyes followed the noise, drifting to the side, toward the bag lying on the floor.
"Doctor... your bag fell..."
Margaret's tiny index finger pointed toward the floor, highlighting Frankestein's bag which now lay there, its contents scattered everywhere.
Yet, Frankestein remained motionless.
The only thing moving was his heart—fast, wild, and nearly uncontrollable—until his lips began to tremble unconsciously, driven by the weight of Margaret's gaze locked onto his.
Those clear, dark eyes of hers—eyes that surely once sparkled with cheer, spirit, and life—now looked dimmed. That gaze pierced through the defenses he had so meticulously built, shredding the logic and discipline that usually held him together, leaving nothing but a void in his mind.
All that remained was a strange sensation that grew clearer and sharper by the second, making him restless. Cold sweat began to bead on his temples, trickling slowly between the strands of his hair.
"Dammit..."
"Why am I overreacting like this?!"
"For heaven's sake... she's just a child!"
Margaret noticed that Frankestein remained silent—not a single facial muscle twitched, not a single answer escaped him. Confused, she tilted her head to the side.
Her gaze swept over every detail of the figure before her, and by chance, her eyes caught something that made her brow furrow: Frankestein's fingers were trembling—subtle, yet unmistakable.
With a small, slightly shaky hand, she reached out. Her movement was hesitant yet purposeful, moving toward Frankestein's fingers.
When her hand finally made contact, grasping his fingers, Margaret did not let go. She tugged at them with weak, fragmented movements, mirroring her own shallow breaths—slowly, as if trying to rouse Frankestein's consciousness, to remind him that she was there, right in front of him.
"Why are you so quiet, Doctor?"
"Are you... are you afraid of me?"
The words she wanted to say came out blurred and indistinct, yet she felt a desperate urge to speak to him. Somehow, just by having this man near her, the heavy weight in Margaret's chest felt lighter.
The dizziness that had been clouding her mind for hours began to dissipate, like a thin mist swept away by the wind, replaced by a strange, inexplicable, yet soothing warmth.
"What is your name, Doctor?"
"My name is Margaret Visclonew. You can call me Margaret."
Margaret's thin smile stretched a little wider. Her slightly uneven teeth should have looked adorable to anyone else—a typical, charming childhood grin.
But in Frankestein's eyes, that smile was different. It wasn't cheerful; it wasn't full of life. There was something forced behind it—a small, unmistakable effort to appear strong despite her frailty.
"I am..."
Margaret paused, her sentence hanging in the air. Suddenly, she lifted both of her hands toward Frankestein.
"Seven years old."
Her smile bloomed once more. But this time, her gaze was accompanied by the movement of her small hands—the fingers of her right hand were fully extended, all five spread wide, while on her left hand, she tucked two fingers down.
"How old are you, Doctor?"
"Margaret doesn't have any friends... would you like to be my friend?"