Room 513 breathed with the muted sounds of the hospital: the low hum of equipment, the occasional distant footstep echoing through the corridor, the faint rattle of the sea breeze slipping through the half-open window. It was neither sterile nor cozy, suspended somewhere between recovery and waiting.

Director Kim stood with two senior doctors near the wall, their arms folded, eyes watchful. A couple of nurses hovered discreetly by the door, their curiosity barely hidden. At the far back, half in shadow, Kang Min-seok leaned against the wall, shoulders stiff, his phone low in his hand as though he were simply checking messages. His gaze never left the bed.

At the center of it all lay Mr. Choi, propped up on pillows, his granddaughter seated faithfully at his side. He looked more amused than worried, his eyes following the young therapist who was carefully preparing at the foot of the bed.

Joon-ho rubbed a small pool of oil between his palms, warming it patiently until it gleamed under the fluorescent light. His movements were unhurried, almost meditative, the kind of steadiness that seemed to quiet the air around him. Then, with a small nod, he lowered his hands to Mr. Choi's leg and began.

His touch started light, gliding over calf and thigh in long strokes, spreading warmth into tired muscles. The oil carried the heat of his palms, seeping into skin and tissue. Then his fingers changed rhythm — pressing, probing, finding the tightness buried beneath layers of age and strain.

Mr. Choi let out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping an inch deeper into the pillows. "Ahh… already that feels different."

"Breathe evenly, sir," Joon-ho murmured, his voice low but steady. "Your muscles will follow your breath."

A chuckle rose from the bed, surprising even Mr. Choi himself. "You sound like one of those yoga instructors my granddaughter keeps dragging me to watch online. All about breathing, balance, and emptying the mind."

The granddaughter rolled her eyes with a small laugh. "You'd be less stubborn if you actually listened to them."

The room softened. Even the senior doctors, once stiff with scrutiny, exchanged faint smiles. Joon-ho didn't respond with humor or dismissal; he simply adjusted his angle and pressed deeper into the inner thigh, his face calm, focused.

His fingers paused over a knot — dense, fibrous, resistant beneath the skin. His thumb shifted slightly, tracing the hardened line that should have softened years ago. He pressed gently, listening with his hands.

"You had an old injury here," Joon-ho said at last, his tone observational rather than questioning. "Not recent… about ten years back?"

Mr. Choi blinked, startled. His granddaughter sat up straighter.

"Yes," Mr. Choi said slowly, his voice touched with astonishment. "During a hiking trip up Hallasan. I slipped on wet stone, tore something in my leg. Took me weeks before I could walk without a cane. You can tell that just from touching?"

Joon-ho nodded lightly, resuming the steady rhythm of massage as though he hadn't broken the silence with something extraordinary. "The scar tissue leaves a story behind. It still talks to my hands."

The old professor laughed softly, not out of disbelief but wonder. "A story, is it? Then my leg must be a very boring book, because it only reminds me how clumsy I was."

"No, grandfather," his granddaughter teased, leaning forward. "You tell it like a hero's tale every holiday. He still brags about that climb every Chuseok, even though it nearly crippled him."

Mr. Choi shot her a mock glare, though the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. "A man is entitled to one epic in his lifetime."

Their exchange loosened the air even further. The granddaughter laughed easily, her voice filling the room with warmth. Mr. Choi, encouraged by the gentle rhythm working into his leg, began recounting more details of that old climb — how the rain had come sudden and heavy, how his wife had scolded him mercilessly afterward, how he had refused to admit to his colleagues that a single stone had defeated him.

Joon-ho listened, hands never pausing, never faltering in pressure or direction. He pressed along the calf, kneading firmly, then stretched his strokes upward to the thigh, coaxing tense fibers into submission. Mr. Choi's voice wavered occasionally, not from pain but from laughter as he remembered.

At the side, one of the senior doctors leaned toward Director Kim and whispered, "He should be grimacing at that pressure. Look at him — he's telling stories."

Director Kim only folded his arms tighter, eyes narrowed in thought.

The granddaughter glanced between her grandfather's animated expression and the young therapist at the foot of the bed. She couldn't decide which surprised her more: that her grandfather was speaking so cheerfully, or that Joon-ho seemed to draw the words out of him without effort.

"Do you know," Mr. Choi said suddenly, tilting his head toward Joon-ho, "I used to lecture about the importance of posture to my students. I told them to sit straight, to keep their spines aligned, to treat their bodies kindly. And yet—" He gestured vaguely at his leg, chuckling. "Here I am, undone by my own body."

"Not undone," Joon-ho corrected gently. "Simply carrying more years. Muscles still respond, sir. They just need patience."

The granddaughter's eyes softened, her hand slipping to squeeze her grandfather's wrist. The exchange carried weight: reassurance not only for Mr. Choi, but for her as well.

Meanwhile, Min-seok's phone angled ever so slightly. His eyes burned holes into Joon-ho's back, watching each stroke with growing resentment. Every chuckle from Mr. Choi, every burst of laughter from the granddaughter, felt like salt ground into his pride.

"Mm," Mr. Choi murmured, closing his eyes briefly as Joon-ho's thumbs pressed deep into the knot along his thigh. "There… that feels… as though it has been clenched for years."

Joon-ho did not respond immediately. He held the pressure steady, then eased off gradually, coaxing release rather than forcing it. His voice followed softly: "Muscles remember tension like old grudges. But they let go if you give them time."

The granddaughter's lips parted faintly, surprised by the simplicity of the wisdom. Her grandfather chuckled again, though this time it was colored by something like relief. "Grudges, yes. My leg has carried one since that hike."

Conversation flowed easily after that. Mr. Choi reminisced about former students, about the chaos of lecture halls, about how even now, when he passes a university gate, he half-expects to see a classroom waiting for him. His granddaughter groaned with affectionate embarrassment at some of the stories, though she clearly adored them.

The massage itself became part of the conversation — every time Joon-ho pressed into a stubborn line of tension, another memory surfaced, as though the touch loosened not just muscle but recollection.

For nearly an hour, the treatment continued. By the time Joon-ho's hands slowed, the difference was visible to everyone present. Mr. Choi's face glowed with color, his shoulders sunk deeper into the pillows, his breath was steady and full. He looked less like a patient and more like a man recovering from an unexpectedly good meal with old friends.

At the side, Director Kim's sharp gaze softened, though he did not speak. The senior doctors exchanged quiet murmurs, more intrigued than doubtful now. Nurses whispered between themselves about how they had never seen Mr. Choi this relaxed during previous checkups.

Only Min-seok's expression darkened, his phone clutched tighter in his hand, as if each passing minute confirmed his deepest humiliation.

Joon-ho at last lifted his palms, wiping them with a clean towel. He bowed slightly toward the patient. "Your muscles have released for now. The strain will not disappear in a day, but your body has begun to loosen. This is the first step."

Mr. Choi opened his eyes slowly, exhaling with a long satisfied breath. "Remarkable… I feel as though my legs have forgotten their anger."

The granddaughter squeezed his hand, her own eyes bright. "I told you, grandfather."

Joon-ho gave only a small smile at that, his attention already shifting toward the next phase of treatment.

But at the foot of the bed, the difference was undeniable. Where there had been tension, there was ease. Where there had been silence, there was laughter. And where there had been doubt, there was now curiosity — though for one man in the corner, curiosity had curdled into bitterness.

The massage had ended, but the room felt altered, quietly charged, as though everyone knew the real test was only beginning.

The air in Room 513 had shifted. The laughter of moments before still lingered faintly, but now it was tempered by a new current — hushed whispers, sharp gazes, the weight of careful observation.

At the back of the room, one of the senior doctors murmured to another. "He doesn't even follow the usual sequence, but look at the patient. He looks better than yesterday already."

Another doctor, older, adjusted his glasses. "Mm. His technique is unusual… but the result speaks."

Director Kim did not join the whispers. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, though the slight furrow in his brow betrayed thought. He had seen dozens of therapists pass through these halls, each promising something, few delivering more than temporary relief. Yet what he saw now was different. Joon-ho's methods were neither purely clinical nor wholly alternative — they seemed to sit at the seam between science and intuition, bridging both without conflict.

The nurses, less guarded with their reactions, traded soft comments. "Yesterday, he winced every time we pressed his leg. Today he looks… comfortable."

"Not even a grimace," the other agreed. "It's like he forgot the pain."

At the foot of the bed, Joon-ho was wiping his hands clean with a sterile cloth, his eyes focused, his mind already moving forward. He turned to Soo-jin.

"Prepare the needles," he said evenly. "We'll move to acupuncture."

"Yes, oppa." Soo-jin stepped briskly to the tray, pulling open the sterilized pack. She arranged them carefully by size, lining them in neat order, swabs and bandages beside them. Her movements carried no hesitation this time — she had been waiting for this, a chance to show how far she'd come since their university days.

Min-seok shifted at the back, angling his body slightly. His phone disappeared behind the shield of a clipboard, lens tilted just enough to catch the bed. His lips pressed into a thin line, bitterness tightening every feature.

Joon-ho reached for the first needle. He held it with calm certainty, his fingers steady. With practiced ease, he pressed gently into the skin of Mr. Choi's thigh and slid the needle in with one smooth motion. No hesitation, no wasted movement.

Soo-jin was already there, swab in hand, sterilizing the next point before he asked. She passed the second needle, then the third, their rhythm developing quickly. The soft clink of metal against tray punctuated the silence, like a subtle metronome.

Mr. Choi blinked at the ceiling, curious more than concerned. "How many of those do you intend to use, young man? Don't turn me into a pincushion."

His granddaughter stifled a laugh.

Joon-ho glanced up, faint smile tugging at his lips. "Only enough to tell your muscles it's safe to rest. No more."

The old man chuckled, shoulders shaking slightly. "Safe to rest, hm? That's kinder than the last doctor who stuck me. He said, 'Don't move or it'll hurt worse.'"

The granddaughter giggled at that, covering her mouth politely. Even the nurses smiled, tension loosening.

Soo-jin handed over another needle. Joon-ho slid it into a pressure point just below the knee, his movements efficient but never hurried. The needles stood like silver reeds, precise and ordered.

Director Kim's eyes tracked every insertion. The other doctors, skeptical at first, found themselves leaning forward unconsciously.

One whispered, "We pressed those same areas yesterday. He flinched each time."

"Now he doesn't even stiffen," the other replied. "Look at his face."

Indeed, Mr. Choi looked almost serene. His breaths were long, unbroken. He spoke calmly between them, telling his granddaughter about how he used to teach his students to write essays with discipline — "Pens straight, notes in order, mind sharp." She smiled, squeezing his hand as though she were one of those students again.

Min-seok's grip on the clipboard tightened. Every word of praise, every ripple of impressed murmuring, felt like an insult carved into his skin. He tapped the side of his phone to make sure the recording was steady, his jaw working.

Joon-ho reached for another needle. "Soo-jin," he said softly.

Already prepared, she placed it in his palm. "Here, oppa."

Their rhythm had become fluid, almost like a duet. Her movements complemented his, his requests timed perfectly with her readiness. The earlier fumbling of her university years was gone — in its place was a polished professional, steady under pressure.

With the last few needles in place, Joon-ho straightened slightly. He checked the alignment, the depth, the spacing — every detail exact, yet unpretentious. Then he stepped back half a pace.

"Rest for a few minutes," he told Mr. Choi. "Let your body speak to itself. After that, I'll remove them."

Mr. Choi exhaled deeply, his eyes closing. "Already feels easier. Like my legs forgot they were angry."

His granddaughter beamed, clasping his hand tightly. "See? I told you, grandfather."

The words carried more than affection — they carried conviction, belief in the man standing at the foot of the bed.

Director Kim's arms remained folded, but his eyes softened with a quiet respect. He had not expected to hear such words so soon, not from a patient who had grimaced at every touch the day before.

Around the bed, doctors and nurses exchanged glances that spoke louder than words. Skepticism was fading, replaced by something harder to deny: admiration.

At the edge of the room, Min-seok lowered his phone slightly. His face was shadowed, bitterness twisting his features. Where others saw progress, he saw insult. Where others saw relief, he saw the erosion of his own standing.

His eyes stayed fixed on Joon-ho, burning with silent resentment, as though he could will the needles to fail. But they didn't. The room itself seemed to hum with quiet proof: the old professor's body had begun to heal, not through pain, not through fear, but through trust.

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