The room was still hushed after the granddaughter's sudden recognition of Joon-ho, her voice lingering like a bell in the air. Even the quiet hum of the machines seemed to retreat, as though giving space for what might come next.

Joon-ho remained where he was beside the bed, steady, his presence neither boastful nor meek. He waited until Mr. Choi's breathing evened again before speaking, his voice calm, pitched only for the old man to hear.

"If you permit it," he said, "I'd like to begin treatment today. Massage therapy now could ease the strain and improve your recovery."

Mr. Choi blinked behind his glasses. For a heartbeat he looked almost startled, then a low chuckle rolled from his chest, self-deprecating. "Troubling you for such a simple injury… I feel ashamed." He lifted a hand as if to wave the matter away. "I'm already old. Strain and soreness come with the territory. No need to make a fuss."

The granddaughter, who had been quiet since her earlier outburst, leaned forward in her chair. Her gaze moved from her grandfather to Joon-ho, then back again, firm in its resolve.

"Grandfather, it's not simple." Her tone was clear, carrying an edge that contrasted with her polite demeanor moments before. "I saw what he did for Ji-hye. Before Joon-ho, she could barely walk without pain. She cried at night because her body wouldn't cooperate. After he treated her, she went back on the court and played as if nothing had happened. On the world stage, no less. That wasn't luck — it was him."

Her words sharpened, her voice steady with conviction. "Compared to him, the person who handled her before was useless."

The words struck their mark.

Min-seok stiffened, his knuckles whitening where his arms were crossed over his chest. His jaw twisted, lips thinning until his expression distorted with rage. For a moment it looked as if he might explode again, but with the senior doctors' watchful eyes on him, he forced the outburst down. His face flushed dark, his mouth pinched shut so tightly that the muscle at his temple jumped with suppressed fury.

The granddaughter hand brushing his arm with quiet encouragement.

Joon-ho allowed the silence to breathe before he responded. He chuckled softly, not mocking, but as if to deflect the heat of her words. "I only supported her training," he said. "Ji-hye's strength was always her own."

Mr. Choi regarded him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing not only the words but the quiet steadiness behind them. Then he exhaled, a long sound that seemed to carry the weight of his hesitation.

"At my age," he said finally, "trust is worth more than medicine. Very well. If Director Kim allows it, I'll trust you."

A small murmur rippled through the staff gathered at the door. Nurses glanced at one another; the senior doctors shifted minutely, acknowledging that something in the air had just shifted in Joon-ho's favor.

Joon-ho rose slightly from his chair, turning toward Director Kim. His tone remained respectful, steady. "With your approval, I'll proceed."

Director Kim didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on Mr. Choi — the softened shoulders, the faint trace of color that had returned to his cheeks, the relaxed line of his mouth. Only hours ago, every examination had drawn tension and pain; now, after barely ten minutes with this therapist, the old man looked at ease.

The director's eyes narrowed, his mind measuring risk against potential. The hospital was already under scrutiny. Allowing an outsider to treat a patient could backfire — but denying what he had seen with his own eyes carried its own danger. The granddaughter's words, the patient's trust, the calm presence of this man… all of it pressed toward a single direction.

Finally, Director Kim gave a small nod. His voice was firm, cutting through the quiet. "You may proceed. But discretion is crucial. One misstep, and the hospital cannot shield you. If anything goes wrong, the responsibility will fall on you alone."

"Understood," Joon-ho replied, bowing his head slightly. There was no hesitation in his voice, only acceptance.

The silence that followed was heavy with meaning. The granddaughter let out a faint breath of relief, her lips curving into the barest of smiles. Mr. Choi adjusted his glasses, studying Joon-ho with newfound confidence. The nurses whispered softly among themselves, their curiosity tempered by professional restraint.

At the back of the room, Min-seok stood rigid, his arms still crossed, eyes locked on Joon-ho with undisguised venom. Each word that had just passed had chipped away at his authority, leaving him diminished in front of colleagues he had hoped to impress. His jaw worked silently, the fury inside him simmering without release.

The senior doctors exchanged quiet looks — not yet convinced, but intrigued. They had seen enough to know that this young man was different. Whether he could truly deliver remained to be seen, but in the balance between arrogance and calm, between bluster and poise, their sympathies had begun to tilt.

The scene settled into stillness, but it was not peace. It was the hush before something larger, the tightening of the air before the storm.

And everyone in the room knew it: what unfolded next would decide more than just the fate of Mr. Choi's recovery. It would decide who held authority in this hospital — skill or title, composure or resentment.

The decision had been made, and the weight of it hung in the air like the hush before a storm. Mr. Choi shifted on his pillows, glasses glinting faintly in the light, while his granddaughter watched every movement with a mixture of relief and anticipation. Director Kim and the senior doctors remained near the wall, their faces carved into professional calm, though their eyes betrayed curiosity.

Joon-ho inclined his head toward the patient. "Are you comfortable with acupuncture? It may help release the tension faster."

Mr. Choi's eyes brightened faintly, his lips curving into a smile. "Acupuncture? I've had it all my life. My father swore by it, and my grandfather before him. Do what you need."

His answer was firm, reassuring, as though giving permission not only to the therapist but to his own body.

Joon-ho nodded once, then turned toward his juniors. "Dong-wook. I'll need oil, sterilized needles, swabs, and bandages. Prepare a tray."

"Yes, hyung," Dong-wook replied quickly. He ducked out into the hall, already signaling to the nurses waiting nearby.

Then Joon-ho turned toward the other figure at his side. "Soo-jin. I'll need you to assist me. I'll call for what I need in order."

Soo-jin puffed her cheeks, a flicker of her old mischief showing. "Oppa, I'm not your fumbling junior anymore. Back at university I dropped half the instruments during practical exams. Don't look at me like that. I'm a professional now. You'll see."

For the first time since stepping into the hospital, Joon-ho's expression softened, the edge of his mouth lifting faintly. The warmth in his eyes was fleeting but genuine, like the trace of sunlight breaking through a cloud. "Good. Then show me."

Her cheeks colored, but she straightened her shoulders with quiet pride.

Moments later, the door opened again. Dong-wook reentered, pushing a stainless-steel tray that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Everything was there: sterilized packs of needles in neat rows, clean swabs, cotton, bandages, vials of disinfectant, a small bottle of oil. The tools were ordinary, yet under the sharp lights, they seemed to shimmer with anticipation, as though the outcome of the morning rested upon them.

Joon-ho stepped forward, inspecting each item with deliberate care. His hands moved slowly, methodically, as though each check was part of a ritual. He turned a package over, checked the seals, pressed the surface to ensure sterilization. Only when satisfied did he let out a breath, calm and steady. The watchers along the wall—doctors, nurses, even Director Kim himself—felt the subtle reassurance in his precision.

"Soo-jin," he said quietly, "arrange them in order. Oil first, then swabs. Place the needles by size—short to long. Bandages last."

"Yes, oppa," she replied crisply. Her hands moved swiftly, but this time without the clumsiness of her student days. Each instrument was aligned neatly, every vial positioned just so. By the time she stepped back, the tray looked less like a scatter of tools and more like the measured arrangement of an artisan's kit.

"Good," Joon-ho said softly.

They crossed to the sink, washing their hands side by side. The water ran cold, then warm, the sterile scent of hospital soap clinging to their skin. They dried their hands with folded sterile towels, movements synchronized without thought.

Back at the bedside, Joon-ho uncapped the small bottle of oil. He poured a thin line across his palms, then rubbed his hands together slowly, warming the liquid until it glistened faintly. His gestures were calm, methodical, almost meditative, as though preparing his own body before touching another's.

The room seemed to narrow in focus. The rustle of fabric, the faint squeak of rubber soles, even the low hum of machines receded. What remained was the rhythm of his movements, the quiet authority in his composure.

"Look at how he prepares," one nurse whispered to another. "Every step deliberate."

Another replied softly, "When Min-seok checked the patient earlier, he barely glanced at the tools. This feels… different."

Director Kim said nothing, but his gaze remained locked on the man by the bed. The senior doctors exchanged subtle glances—skepticism remained, but even they could not deny the magnetism of the ritual unfolding before them.

At the foot of the bed, Mr. Choi adjusted his glasses, watching with a bemused smile. "You're more meticulous than the professors I used to lecture beside. My students never lined up their pens this neatly."

His granddaughter laughed quietly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "That's why he's different, Grandfather. He doesn't treat people like cases."

Joon-ho only inclined his head at her words, not commenting, though the corner of his mouth curved briefly.

At the back of the room, unseen by most, Min-seok lingered in the shadow of the door. His arms were no longer crossed; one hand had slipped into his coat pocket, withdrawing a phone. His eyes burned holes into Joon-ho's back as his thumb slid over the screen, activating the camera.

The faintest chime of readiness sounded, masked by the shuffling of shoes and murmured conversation. He angled the lens carefully, the black glass eye catching the tableau: the calm therapist, the neatly arranged tray, the circle of doctors observing with narrowed eyes.

His lips pressed into a thin line. If Joon-ho faltered—if there was any misstep—he would have the proof. A video could spread online in hours. Netizens would tear into it. The hospital could claim they had only observed, shifting the blame onto Joon-ho alone.

Bitterness tightened his chest, but beneath it flickered something rawer, uglier: fear. A month ago, he had been cast out for his failures. Now the same man stood in his place, calm and steady where he had stumbled. Every second Joon-ho remained in that room felt like another nail hammered into the coffin of his pride.

But no one else noticed him.

The focus of the room remained on the bedside: Joon-ho with his warmed oil and steady breath, Soo-jin poised beside the tray, Dong-wook watchful, ready to step forward if needed. Director Kim and the senior doctors kept their silence, their curiosity sharpened to a point. Even Mr. Choi's granddaughter leaned forward, her eyes following every movement with intent curiosity.

The air seemed to crystallize around the scene, the sterile white walls echoing with anticipation.

And so the stage was set: in the foreground, the steady rhythm of a healer preparing to work; in the background, the hidden eye of resentment, recording quietly, waiting for the smallest fracture.

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