The room had fallen into a hush again. Only the faint clink of metal being set aside broke the stillness, a delicate rhythm that matched the quiet anticipation pressing in on everyone present.

Joon-ho moved with unhurried precision, withdrawing each acupuncture needle in the order he had placed them. His fingers were steady, his touch almost reverent. Soo-jin stood close at his side, a small tray in her hands, following his motions as though she were his shadow. Each time he eased a needle free, she accepted it without hesitation, dropping it into the specialized disposal bin. The soft click of metal against plastic sounded almost ceremonial.

They had fallen into a rhythm — one hand passing, the other discarding, both moving with a synchronicity born not only from training but from trust. To an outside eye, it might have looked rehearsed, but those who had worked in hospitals long enough recognized something rarer: efficiency paired with calm.

At the back of the room, Kang Min-seok lingered with his arms folded, his jaw set hard. The phone he had been hiding earlier was tucked away now, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. He stood like a man watching his authority drain away, powerless to stop it.

When the final needle was removed, Joon-ho set the swab aside and wiped his hands clean. He turned back to the patient, his gaze softening.

"Sir," he said quietly, "try moving your legs slowly. Don't force anything. Just follow the motion."

Mr. Choi gave a small nod, his glasses sliding down his nose as he shifted upright against the pillows. His granddaughter immediately straightened, one hand hovering anxiously near his arm.

The old man drew a breath, then moved his right leg. The ankle flexed with surprising smoothness, the knee bending with less resistance than it had shown the day before. He tried the left, slower this time, but the result was similar — no grimace, no tight wince of pain.

A murmur rippled among the doctors. Director Kim, arms folded across his chest, leaned forward just slightly. The granddaughter gasped, gripping her grandfather's arm.

A smile crept across Mr. Choi's face, faint at first, then widening until it crinkled the corners of his eyes. "It feels lighter," he said, almost incredulous. "Almost like my legs forgot how to ache."

"Grandfather…" the granddaughter whispered, her voice trembling with relief.

Encouraged, Mr. Choi glanced at Joon-ho. "May I try standing?"

Joon-ho's expression remained calm, but his eyes carried a note of caution. "We'll do it together. Slowly."

He stepped to one side of the bed while the granddaughter moved to the other. Together they guided Mr. Choi's legs down until his feet touched the cold floor. For a moment, nothing happened — the old man hesitated, hands gripping both of theirs, as if waiting for a signal.

"Breathe in," Joon-ho said softly. "Now rise, gently."

The muscles in Mr. Choi's legs trembled under the shift of weight. His frame wavered, but Joon-ho's hand pressed steady against his arm, the granddaughter's grip strong on the other side. Inch by inch, the professor lifted himself, until at last he was standing on both feet.

The silence that followed was absolute. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

Then he straightened, shoulders squaring, balance finding him again.

The collective exhale filled the room like a wave. A nurse at the back pressed a hand to her chest. One of the senior doctors muttered, almost to himself, "Remarkable…"

Mr. Choi laughed under his breath, the sound edged with disbelief. "I haven't stood without pain like this in years."

Joon-ho adjusted his hold but didn't let go. "Let's take a step. Just one for now."

Mr. Choi nodded. He shifted his right leg forward, carefully, then set it down. His left followed. The steps were deliberate, cautious, but smoother than any he had managed in recent memory. He took another, then another.

His granddaughter covered her mouth, eyes wet with tears she didn't want to shed in front of the doctors.

Across the room, one physician whispered, "Unbelievable." Another nodded, unable to deny it. Even Director Kim, ever reserved, allowed the faintest smile to flicker across his face.

But not everyone was smiling.

At the back, Min-seok stiffened. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. Every approving glance, every murmur of astonishment, felt like an accusation against him. He had spent years demanding respect from his colleagues, and now a man younger than him — a so-called outsider — had dismantled it all in a matter of hours.

With a harsh scrape of chair legs against the floor, Min-seok turned and stormed out. The door swung wide in his wake, slamming against the stopper with a dull thud.

Several heads turned, frowns following his retreat. One senior doctor sighed, shaking his head in quiet disappointment. Another muttered, "Immature…"

But the attention quickly returned to the patient.

Mr. Choi managed a small lap around the bed, guided gently by Joon-ho. His movements grew steadier with each step, his posture less tentative. When at last he sat back down, he looked years younger, color restored to his face.

Director Kim stepped closer. "How do you feel now?"

Mr. Choi let out a light laugh, still catching his breath. "Like I could go hiking again this afternoon."

The room chuckled with him — even the doctors who rarely allowed themselves such indulgence. His granddaughter shook her head, smiling through tears. "Please don't, grandfather. One miracle is enough for today."

The laughter faded into quiet, leaving only relief in its place.

Mr. Choi's expression sobered. "To be honest, I dislike staying in hospitals. I feel tired lying idle. If I am well enough, why not go home?"

Director Kim glanced toward Joon-ho, his brows lifting slightly. "Your professional assessment?"

Joon-ho considered carefully before answering. "He should be discharged if other tests confirm stability. Light walking, gentle rehabilitation, daily movement — these will help more than confinement. But he must pace himself. Overexertion will undo today's progress."

The granddaughter nodded firmly as if to promise she would enforce that herself.

Director Kim regarded them both, then gave a decisive nod. "We'll schedule final checkups today. If they pass, you may return home."

Mr. Choi's face lit up. "Ah, wonderful. A bed at home is worth more than any bed here."

Relief rippled through the room. Nurses smiled, doctors murmured approval, and the granddaughter clasped Joon-ho's hand tightly, whispering her thanks over and over.

At the center of it all, Joon-ho simply bowed his head slightly, his expression calm as ever. He did not bask in the praise, nor seek acknowledgment. His focus was still on the patient, as though nothing else in the room mattered.

Director Kim watched him quietly, his expression composed, but his thoughts carried a silent weight. Whatever the future held, this much was certain: the young therapist had turned the situation completely around.

And for the first time in days, the hospital corridor outside Room 513 hummed not with tension, but with a quiet, fragile hope.

The quiet in Room 513 lingered even after the test had ended, the air still carrying the echo of Mr. Choi's laughter. For the first time since his admission, the old professor looked less like a patient and more like himself — shoulders upright, eyes bright, voice steady.

Joon-ho inclined his head respectfully, his tone calm. "I'll leave you to rest now."

Mr. Choi clasped his hand warmly, the grip firm despite his age. "You've given me back more than comfort, young man. You've given me confidence."

The granddaughter stood, her gaze unwavering. "Thank you. Truly. I'll never forget this." Her voice trembled, but it was with emotion rather than doubt.

Joon-ho smiled faintly, then offered gently, "If you're willing, perhaps you could visit the JejuCaféDays set again once you're stronger. The program would benefit… and so would the island."

Mr. Choi chuckled, a spark of humor lighting his expression. "If it helps Jeju, then gladly. Besides, someone has to show young people that not all old men complain."

His granddaughter laughed despite herself, squeezing his hand. The tension of the morning finally seemed to dissolve.

In the corridor, the quiet hum of the hospital returned — the wheels of carts squeaking against the polished floor, muffled footsteps passing by. Joon-ho walked beside Director Kim, their pace measured.

Director Kim lowered his voice, his tone carrying weight. "You have my thanks. The hospital has been under extreme pressure since Do-jin's incident. Reporters sneaking in, cameras flashing near the entrance, patients unsettled… we even had to double security. Healing should not happen under siege."

Joon-ho nodded, his gaze steady. "Hospitals should be places of calm, not spectacle. I'll do what I can to keep it that way."

Director Kim regarded him for a long moment, then inclined his head. "Your work today may help turn the tide of public opinion. For that, I'm grateful."

Their conversation paused as footsteps approached.

Dong-wook and Soo-jin emerged from the treatment room, having finished cleaning the equipment. They bowed politely. "Director-nim."

Director Kim acknowledged them with a rare, approving nod. "Dong-wook, you did well bringing him here. You have a good eye."

Dong-wook flushed slightly at the praise. "Thank you, Director."

Then Kim turned to Soo-jin. "And you kept steady hands today. That makes a difference. Patients feel the smallest tremors."

Soo-jin straightened, pride flickering across her face. "Yes, Director."

Director Kim's expression softened by a fraction, then he turned back toward his colleagues. "I'll leave the follow-up tests in your hands. Do not waste what's been achieved here." With that, he departed with the senior doctors, his measured steps echoing down the corridor until they faded.

The silence that followed was different — lighter, less burdened.

Dong-wook exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hyung… I knew you were good, but today…" He shook his head, grinning. "You're on another level. No wonder people talk about you like a legend."

Soo-jin puffed her cheeks playfully, nudging Joon-ho's arm. "See? I told you I'm not the fumbling junior anymore. I kept up, didn't I?"

Joon-ho let out a soft chuckle, the tension of the morning easing from his shoulders. "Both of you did well. University feels far away now, doesn't it?"

Dong-wook groaned in mock despair. "Far away, but those late nights still haunt me."

Soo-jin rolled her eyes. "You mean the nights you fell asleep on the couch while the rest of us finished the reports?"

"Lies," Dong-wook said, grinning. "Slander."

Their playful bickering made Joon-ho smile. For a moment, it felt as if they were back in those cramped practice rooms, except now their roles had shifted. The once uncertain juniors now stood taller, and he, once merely their senior, had become something more.

Joon-ho checked the clock on the wall. Nearly noon. His stomach reminded him that the morning had passed without a pause. "Have you both eaten? Come with me. Let's have lunch together."

Dong-wook nodded instantly. "I'll call my department. I can extend my break." He was already reaching for his phone.

Soo-jin let out a theatrical sigh, holding up her blazer and handbag. "Perfect timing. I just finished night shift. If I go home now, I'll collapse. Food first, nap later."

Joon-ho gave a small nod, as if to seal the agreement.

The lobby was alive with movement, sunlight pouring through tall glass windows that overlooked Jeju's coastline. Patients shuffled slowly across the floor, families gathered in quiet clusters, nurses pushed carts from one wing to another. The noise was not overwhelming, but steady — the sound of life continuing.

Joon-ho waited near the entrance while his juniors checked in with their departments. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, calm amid the bustle, his gaze briefly following the seabirds circling beyond the glass.

When they regrouped, Soo-jin had changed into a casual-smart outfit, her hair brushed neatly, her face carrying the faint glow of relief after a long shift. Dong-wook still wore his scrubs, but his grin was as bright as the midday sun.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Soo-jin said, adjusting the strap of her bag.

"Not at all," Joon-ho replied.

Together, the three stepped out of the hospital. The fresh midday air of Jeju wrapped around them, salt-tinged and clean. The chaos of the hospital — its whispers, its tension, its battles — fell away behind them, replaced by the sound of distant waves and the chatter of tourists on the street below.

Dong-wook stretched his arms overhead and grinned. "Hyung, follow me. There's a spot just ten minutes away. Best seafood stew in the city. Trust me, it'll put life back into you."

Soo-jin groaned good-naturedly. "You always say that, and last time it was so spicy I couldn't feel my tongue."

"That's how you know it's good," Dong-wook shot back.

Joon-ho only shook his head lightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. For the first time since stepping into Jeju Hospital, he allowed himself to exhale fully, the weight of expectation easing just a little.

They walked on, the three of them together, their laughter carried by the breeze.

Behind them, within the walls they had left, bitterness still smoldered — unspoken, unseen, but waiting for its chance to return.

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