To the public, he wasn't just a surgeon; he was an angel in a white coat. While other surgeons spent their rare breaks hunched over lukewarm instant coffee in sterile cafeterias, Ra-ik was usually being pampered. You could easily find him in the hospital's sun-drenched courtyard, eyes closed in serene patience as a makeup artist would delicately touch up his face for a magazine feature or for a live-streamed podcast with award-winning professors.
He was the Medic of the Century, an article once wrote, a young professor and consultant for three European medical boards. But to the world, his brilliance was secondary to his soul or at least, the soul the cameras captured so perfectly.
"Dr. Do! Just one photo for the fans! Please!" a voice cried out, echoing through the lobby.
He stopped in the middle of the bustling Seoul Global Medical Center. He was currently escorting an elderly patient toward the pharmacy, his hand resting gently on her frail, cardigan-clad shoulder, as if he was her devoted and loving grandson.
He didn't look annoyed or rushed. Instead, he turned toward the flurry of unauthorized cameras and flashed a look of genuine, soft-hearted warmth that felt like an embrace or like a warm cup of tea on a cold day.
"Maybe not in the hospital next time, Journalist Im Jae-yi," and then looked around to everyone, "Let's respect the peace of those who are here to heal and keep the path clear for their ease, shall we?" he said so softly and so beautifully. His voice was a perfect blend of a request and command that for a split second no one realized that he had just reprimanded them.
The journalists stood frozen, paralyzed by a sudden, stinging sense of guilt. It was impossible to remain detached when a man of his stature possessed such an eerie, focused memory for every individual he met. He didn't just recognize a face; he greeted them by name, extending that same uncanny attention to the lowliest cameraman and junior assistant, remembering details of their lives checking up on them whenever he saw them again from encounters that had lasted mere seconds. This relentless individualism earned him a devotion that bordered on worship.
They lowered their cameras and hastily started to retreat, feeling like they'd just disappointed their own older brother. As they left, Ra-ik turned back to the elderly woman, his attention shifting back to her as if she were the only person in the building. It was this effortless grace that had earned him the title every news anchor in the country used, "The Nation's Healer."
In another instance he used his sharp mind to his favor, "Of course," his voice smooth. "But I have a condition. Only if you promise to donate the price of a fancy latte to the Children's Heart Fund today. A photo for a life! is it a deal?"
And the crowd erupted into cheers. Within minutes, #DoRaIksDeal was trending #1 on Twitter.
His influence was, frankly, terrifying. Other time, while suffering from a bout of the flu, he'd been photographed at a corner store looking pale, clutching a specific brand of "Cloud-Soft" tissues. That company, which had been three days away from filing for bankruptcy, saw its stock skyrocket so violently that the factory had to run triple shifts to keep up. Ra-ik, being the saint he was, ended up becoming the face of the brand for free, just to keep the workers employed. And later was officially begged and hailed as the brand's ambassador.
Also that time when he was on a podcast and the host leaned in, looking at him with pure adoration. "Dr. Do, how do you stay so... human with all problems? How do you keep your heart so soft in such a hard profession?"
Ra-ik looked directly into the camera, his eyes shimmering with a hint of melancholy that made half the population swoon over him and wanting to reach through the screen and hug him. He adjusted his glasses a pair that was sold out across Asia by midnight.
"Because a patient isn't a problem to be solved," Ra-ik said softly. "They are a story. They are someone's mother, someone's child. If I ever stop feeling their pain, I should stop being a doctor. Shouldn't I?" And the studio audience laughed, charmed by his humility.
He continued, "I believe a doctor without a heart is just a technician. And a technician has no right to treat humans. It's an insult to the life they've lived."
....
The television was turned up loud, loud enough to drown out the silence and loneliness of her life.
Se-na was sprawled across her velvet couch, a plate of gold-leafed macarons resting in front of her. This was the only time she looked normal maybe stripped of her white coat and wrapped in a heavy silk robe, made her look less like a "sarcastic monster" and more like a bored human.
Her eyes were glued to the screen, watching the very podcast interview. There he was. Do Ra-ik.
It was that scene where the host leaned in, looking at him with pure adoration. "Dr. Do, how do you stay so... human… with all problems? How do you keep your heart so soft in such a hard profession?"
"Because a patient isn't a problem to be solved," he was saying softly. "They are a story. They are someone's mother, someone's child. If I ever stop feeling their pain, I should stop being a doctor. Shouldn't I?" She heard the studio erupting into a laughter.
He continued, "I believe a doctor without a heart is just a technician. And a technician has no right to treat humans. It's an insult to the life they've lived."
Se-na tossed a macaron into her mouth, a stray crumb landing on her silk lap. She pointed the half-eaten sweet at the screen, a deep scowl etching itself onto her face.
"Aye! No! Still frustratingly soft! Tsk," she said at the empty room, shaking her head in disappointment. "That's where I must disagree with you, dear."
She sat up slightly, gesturing with her macaron as if she were debating him in the flesh. "A heart is just a muscle that gets in the way of a steady hand. Like mine."
With a flare of dramatic narcissism, she kissed her right hand, then her left, and looked back at the screen where Ra-ik was offering a saintly smile.
And then she paused and leaned back, chewing slowly. Her eyes softened, just for a fraction of a second, as she traced the lines of his face on the 4K display. He looked tired. No one else would see it, but she saw the slight tension in his jaw.
"But... if you say it," she said with a childish pout looking back down at the macaron, "I suppose I'll have to think about it. Just for a second."
She squeezed her eyes shut, counted to exactly sixty, and then snapped them open. "Done." And then she chuckled to herself.
She had remembered him from the very beginning. In high school, he was the boy who sat rows ahead, the one who took the top spot in every single exam. She had watched him back then with a silent, distant awe that eventually turned into hate so bitter that it always boiled her blood. It wasn't that she worried about her own scores nah never did she ever worry about such simple things like marks and positions after all her intelligence and her power to control the system was a given but she hated the way he shone. He was everyone's favorite, and when he spoke, the world seemed to tilt in his direction. In that specific arena of influence, she found herself competing with him. He was the only person whose shadow was long enough to actually cover her, her rival, her enemy, and the one wall she couldn't seem to climb over.
But somewhere between the years of competition and contempt, the hate had curdled into something else. It wasn't love Se-na didn't believe in something so messy and inefficient like love. It was honor. Yes honor it was.
She respected his meticulous work, his well-thought-out words, and his unshakable logic. He was the only person who made her look at the "human machine" and see something worth respecting. To her, he was the gold standard the only man whose brain was as fast as hers, she always knew that he was sharp and cunning and also that he had a flaw that his heart was inexplicably, frustratingly soft to which she was trying to come terms with.
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