The streets of Seoul were alive with the morning rush — taxis honking, buses groaning to a stop, and people weaving through the crowd like a river of urgency. Han Ji-won dashed through it all, her high heels clacking against the pavement, one hand clutching her bag, the other juggling her phone. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she tied her bun, strands of hair escaping with every frantic step.

Her phone slipped from her hand, bouncing off the sidewalk. She glanced down for the briefest second, panic flickering in her chest, but time wasn't hers to steal. A quick curse escaped her lips as she picked up the pace. The office wouldn't wait — and her boss never did.

Bursting through the doors of the media company, she skidded slightly, bowing deeply. "Sorry! I'm so sorry!" she said, cheeks flushed, as all eyes turned to her.

"How many times do I need to tell you to come earlier before everyone else?!" her leader's voice thundered, slicing through the office like lightning.

Ji-won flinched, keeping her eyes on the floor, listening silently. She knew she wouldn't be spared — never was.

"This is your last chance. Don't mess up again!"

The words hung heavy in the air. Every employee's gaze followed her, some with pity, some with barely-hidden amusement. Slowly, she eased herself into her chair, the weight of the morning pressing on her shoulders. Her fingers moved automatically over the keyboard, gathering details, compiling information — the work of a dozen people, but expected from her alone.

Lunch came and went without her noticing, a sandwich untouched on the corner of her desk. The office buzzed around her as colleagues chatted and ate, but Ji-won's world had narrowed down to deadlines, notes, and the relentless stream of work her leader piled onto her.

Hours later, when the sun was beginning to dip behind the tall buildings of Seoul, her phone vibrated sharply.

"Ji-won-ah, why are you so late? Dinner's getting cold," her grandmother's voice chimed warmly through the speaker.

"Grandma... just wait, okay? I'll be there in thirty minutes," Ji-won said, glancing at her watch. "My scooter's in the garage, so I'll need a taxi... or maybe I can catch the bus."

Her phone was cut off mid-sentence as her leader barked another order from across the office. Ji-won cursed under her breath, stuffing the phone into her bag.

Finally, the office quieted. Ji-won grabbed her coat and called a taxi. The ride home was a blur of neon lights and evening traffic. When she arrived, the apartment was silent except for the soft hum of the city outside.

There, on the couch, her grandmother slept lightly, a faint frown on her face, waiting for her. Ji-won exhaled, exhaustion washing over her. She sank beside her, brushing a loose strand of hair from her grandmother's forehead.

It was just another day — yet somehow, it felt heavier than usual.

Ji-won slowly draped a soft blanket over her shoulders, the warmth a small comfort against the chill of exhaustion. She moved to the dining table, her eyes falling on the neatly set dishes — now cold and uninviting. The familiar aroma of home-cooked food usually brought a sense of peace, but tonight, even that failed to awaken her appetite.

She picked up her chopsticks, moving them almost mechanically, tasting each bite with a distant sort of detachment. Tiny, silent tears slid down her cheeks, unnoticed as she ate slowly, each mouthful heavy with fatigue and unspoken worry. Her grandmother's care, the warmth of the meal, the life she had built for herself despite everything — it all felt too much to hold in one moment.

Ji-won swallowed, trying to focus on the food, trying to gather strength for tomorrow. But the exhaustion in her body and the ache in her heart were stubborn, and she couldn't stop the quiet tears that traced a path down her face.

For a moment, the world outside the apartment — the endless deadlines, the rush of the city, the pressure from her boss — faded, leaving only this quiet, bittersweet moment of solitude at the dinner table.

Day after day, Han Ji-won carried the same weight on her shoulders. Her life had become a cycle of deadlines, late nights, and exhaustion. Every evening, her grandmother waited for her, eyes flicking toward the clock every few minutes, heart heavy with worry. When Ji-won arrived late — again — she would find her grandmother asleep on the couch, a quiet testament to her concern.

One night, Ji-won returned home utterly drained. Her body ached, eyes shadowed with fatigue, and her hands swollen. As usual, she spotted her grandmother asleep on the couch. Slowly, she grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around herself, feeling its warmth as a fleeting comfort.

Tonight, she didn't even glance at the dinner table. She went straight to her bedroom, washed up carefully, and applied ointment to her swollen hands and minor scratches. Lying down, she couldn't stop the memories of her office torment replaying in her mind.

She recalled the day with perfect clarity. She had been typing a report when an absent-minded colleague accidentally spilled a drink on her hand — the liquid spreading quickly across the keyboard and her documents. The employee had bowed repeatedly, murmuring apologies, but it was too late. Her hand was already swollen, and her computer damaged.

When Ji-won brought the matter to her boss, she expected fairness — but none came. Her leader's voice cut through her frustration like a whip. "How could you let this happen? Take the computer and get it repaired immediately!"

Ji-won carried the heavy laptop down the stairs, each step a battle against pain and exhaustion. But fate seemed determined to mock her — she slipped, sprawling painfully across the concrete. Her leg turned red from the impact, her hand throbbing fiercely. Her boss's voice barked from above, sharp and cruel: "Are you dumb? Can't you do anything right?"

Ji-won looked pathetic, her pride battered as much as her body. She said nothing, standing in silence, swallowing her tears. Without a word, she left the office that day, carrying not only the computer but also the weight of humiliation.

Eventually, she found herself in the quiet of a small park near her apartment.

Thinking all this night she cried a lot.

The morning sun streamed faintly through the curtains, but Ji-won's room was still quiet. Her phone buzzed endlessly on the nightstand, vibrating against the wood, but she didn't stir.

Downstairs, her grandmother looked at the clock. 12:00 PM.

A crease formed on her forehead. Why wasn't she answering her phone?

She climbed the stairs slowly, worry tightening her chest. When she opened the door, she saw Ji-won curled up under the blanket, still asleep. Gently, she reached out to wake her, but the moment her hand brushed Ji-won's forehead, she froze.

"She's burning up..."

"Ji-won-ah," her grandmother whispered softly. "You have a fever. Why didn't you tell me you're not feeling well?"

Ji-won blinked awake, lifting a weak hand to her forehead. "Mmm... do I? I don't think so, Grandma. I'm okay."

Her grandmother checked her fever from the thermometer and showed her the thermometer, the small red line clearly above normal. Ji-won stayed silent.

"And your phone," Grandma said, "it's been ringing so much — maybe ten times. You should check who it is."

Ji-won gave a tired smile. "Okay, I'll check. Go down and prepare something delicious. I'm hungry."

Her grandmother's lips curved into a smile at the request. "Alright. I'll cook." She left the room quietly.

Ji-won turned her gaze to the window. The sunlight felt warm on her skin. She looked at the clock and thought, after so many days, I've had proper sleep... I feel good.

Her phone buzzed again. She picked it up slowly. "Yes?" she answered.

Her boss's voice exploded through the speaker:

"YAAAAAAAAAA! Where are you? Do you want to die? Do you not want your salary?!"

Ji-won's voice was calm and cold. "I already sent you my resignation yesterday. I think you haven't seen it?"

"What? Resign? Why?"yaaa ji won ah you know our company need like you who can talk  logically and go  any where with out any questions.

She rolled her eyes, her voice trembling but firm:

"That's why you sent me into forests to find people who don't even want to be interviewed. Do you even know how many times I've faced problems because of it? You don't. You're too busy with your co-workers in cafes, bars, and hotels while leaving me to handle everything alone. Aigoo... I deserved a promotion, but instead, you gave it to people who don't even work. My salary is less than others, even when I stay until 10 p.m. every night. Cut the phone, bastard."

She hung up.

Looking into the mirror, Ji-won took a deep breath. Her lips curved into the smallest smile. "This is the first time I let my voice out," she whispered to herself.

Downstairs, her grandmother had been listening. A proud, quiet smile spread across her face.

After showering, Ji-won came down to find the table full of freshly cooked dishes. She smiled, but before she could sit, her grandmother touched her forehead again, checking the fever.

"Grandma, I'm okay. You don't need to worry about me," Ji-won said softly.

Her grandmother smiled, and they sat together at the dining table. Ji-won suddenly realized her grandmother hadn't woken her up like usual.

"Why didn't you wake me up this morning?" she asked.

Her grandmother smiled warmly. "Because I knew you needed rest... after all this tragedy."

Ji-won blinked, confused, but her grandmother only said, "Eat it before it gets cold."

Ji-won ate quietly, warmth spreading in her chest that had nothing to do with food.

That night, when Ji-won went upstairs to her room, her grandmother lingered in the kitchen. Her mind drifted back to the night before.

She had woken up to find the untouched dinner on the table. Slowly, she'd climbed the stairs, only to hear Ji-won crying softly in her room. She'd paused outside the door, her heart aching. But she didn't go in. She had turned away, letting Ji-won cry alone — knowing sometimes that was all a person could do.

The automatic doors of Prestigious Seoul Hospital burst open as paramedics rushed in a gurney. The patient — a young man in his twenties — was pale and drenched in sweat, his clothes torn and bloodstained. His breathing was shallow, his pulse weak.

"Male, twenty-four! Car accident, high speed collision!" the paramedic barked. "Blood pressure dropping fast, suspected internal bleeding in the abdomen!"

Nurses scrambled around, pushing carts of emergency supplies. The ER buzzed with urgency, but one figure cut through the chaos like a blade.

Someone call the Dr.Kang.

Dr. Kang Min-jun entered, still tying his surgical mask, his white coat flaring slightly with his stride. His expression was calm, eyes sharp.

"Vitals," he said firmly.

"BP 70 over 40! Heart rate 150!" a nurse responded.

"FAST scan!" Min-jun ordered.

A portable ultrasound was rolled in immediately. Min-jun pressed the probe against the patient's abdomen, scanning the screen with practiced eyes. Dark shadows pooled where they shouldn't be — free fluid, blood.

"He's bleeding internally. Prep the OR. Now."

The team moved instantly. The gurney rattled as they rushed the patient down the hall. Min-jun walked alongside, already pulling on surgical gloves.

In the Operating Room

Bright lights flooded the sterile room. The anesthesiologist called out vitals. Nurses lined up instruments on a tray, glancing at Min-jun for cues.

"Midline laparotomy," he said calmly. "Scalpel."

The nurse handed it to him without hesitation. With a single decisive motion, Min-jun made the incision from just below the breastbone down to the lower abdomen.

"Retractor."

The abdominal cavity opened, and a dark pool of blood welled up immediately.

"Pack the quadrants," Min-jun instructed. Gauze pads were placed quickly to control the bleeding.

"Source?" the assisting resident asked, voice trembling.

"Splenic rupture," Min-jun replied, eyes never leaving the field. "He's losing blood fast. Suction."

As the blood was cleared, Min-jun located the shattered spleen, clamping off vessels with swift precision.

"Clamp. Ligation. Splenectomy."

The instruments moved between hands like choreography. Despite the beeping monitors, the shouting, and the urgency, Min-jun's voice stayed calm, his movements sharp and efficient.

"Pressure's coming back," the anesthesiologist called. "BP stabilizing."

"Good," Min-jun said softly. "We're not losing him today."

Minutes stretched into hours until finally, the bleeding was controlled. Min-jun removed his gloves, his face unreadable under the mask. Another life saved — but to him, just another day.

After a long night in the hospital, Min-jun finally closed the door of his apartment at 1:00 AM. The city outside was quiet now, neon lights reflecting faintly on the streets below. He leaned against the door for a moment, letting out a long, tired sigh, and then went straight to freshen up.

Finally, he sank into his bed, exhaustion pressing on him like a heavy weight. His eyes flicked to his phone — a message from his mother:

Mom: "Son, I hope you are doing okay. I have something to tell you. If you get a free moment, you can call me anytime. Love you."

A small smile touched his lips. He put the phone aside, closed the lights, and allowed himself to sleep, if only for a few hours.

Next Morning

The next day, Min-jun drove to his mother's home. It had been months since he'd visited, caught up in the endless cycle of surgeries and hospital duties. The moment he stepped inside, his mother rushed forward, embracing him tightly.

"After such a long time, you finally came," she said softly, brushing his hair back. "Your grandpa is waiting for you."

Min-jun hesitated, a shadow crossing his face. "Mom... again, marriage?"

His mother didn't reply immediately. Instead, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Your grandfather is getting older, Min-jun. He's unwell day by day. Maybe he just wants to see you, show some concern... it's not always about marriage. You're already mature. What's the problem if he wants to talk?"

She watched him go, her expression tinged with sadness.

Grandfather's Room

Min-jun pushed open the door to his grandfather's room. Nurses stood quietly, waiting, but the old man waved them out with a weak but firm gesture.

"Go on, all of you. I want to speak with my grandson alone."

Min-jun approached slowly and sat beside the old man.

"Are you okay, Pa? Eating properly?" he asked gently.

His grandfather's eyes twinkled with a quiet amusement. "I'm fine. And you? Working so hard, treating patients... do you even have time for your pa?"

Min-jun shook his head. "It's not like that. I've been busy, but the nurses have been updating me about you. Pa, anything you need, just say it."

The old man's smile softened, but then a shadow crossed his face. "I want to see you married."

Min-jun's lips twitched in a small, reluctant laugh. "I knew this was coming."

"Look, grandson," his grandfather continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I'm old now... I don't know how much time I have left. It's my last wish. Please... marry."

Min-jun stood slowly, frustration rising in his chest. "Pa, I've told you many times — I cannot marry someone I don't love. Someone I don't even know. How can I?"

His grandfather's expression softened, a hint of pleading in his eyes. "Then... you can know her. I can call her, arrange a meeting. She's very nice. I saw her when she was sixteen..."

Min-jun's brow furrowed, incredulous. "Sixteen? You saw her when she was sixteen, and now you don't even know where she is... and you think you know her?"

"It's not like I don't know her," his grandfather replied, voice gentler. "Her grandmother often came to see me. She told me about her, how busy she was with work and life..."

Min-jun bowed slightly, the weight of respect mingling with frustration. "I'm sorry, Pa. But I can't marry someone I don't know."

Without another word, he turned and left the room. His mother, standing silently in the hallway, watched him go, her eyes misty. Min-jun didn't look at her; he simply walked out, his resolve clear, but his heart quietly heavy.