Vice stepped out of Director Cho's office, the faint cloy of sugary tea still lingering in his nose as Dr. Nam's heavy footsteps thudded beside him. The corridor stretched ahead, white walls sterile and endless, the soft hum of machinery buzzing like a distant swarm. His damp jacket hung over his forearm, dripping a faint trail, and his shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin. Nam's short yet broad frame somehow loomed as they walked, the older doctor's gruff voice cutting through the quiet.
"So, Xong," Nam said, not breaking stride, his tone rough as gravel, "you're one of two shift docs we've got in the Trauma Centre. When does the 24/7 grind kick in for you?"
Vice kept pace, hands shoved in his pockets, his clothes drying from the warm air of the heaters. "Six months," he said, voice low but steady, glancing at Nam briefly before looking ahead. "That's when they slate me for full-time on-call, after I've settled in."
Nam grunted, a sound that could've meant anything, approval, skepticism, or just air escaping his barrel chest. "Six months, huh? Better get used to the chaos fast, kid. This place doesn't wait." His eyes flicked to Vice, sharp and assessing, then back to the hall.
Vice pulled out his phone, opening the Kakao messaging app. Notifications blinked:
~ Lila: I saw your video, never took you for trending material.
~ Xong Family Home Online: Mom - I've just set up contact with a potential wife for our Vice. (+78 unread messages)
~ Lisa: Me and some of the nurses will be going out for drinks later in the evening, please come along (+2 unread messages)
Vice tapped the family group chat, skimming quickly, already dreading what his mother was up to. His brother bragged about his university football team entering a local league, his father sent random video links about making money, tagging his brother, and Lila dropped a link, no doubt the bus stop clip.
His mother's lone message about a "potential wife" hung there, ominous. Unease prickled his gut, but he pocketed the phone as the elevator dinged, first floor reached. They walked the halls to the Trauma Centre, the routine hum of the hospital steady around them.
The glass doors hissed open. The Trauma Centre buzzed with its usual rhythm, monitors beeping in sync, nurses moving with purpose between beds, the air sharp with antiseptic. Beds lined the walls, some curtained, others open, minor injuries near the front, critical care rooms deeper in. It wasn't chaos, just a busy day, the staff's order keeping it from tipping over.
Vice's chest tightened slightly, a flicker of nerves hitting him, he was a doctor, after all, his hands could mean life or death. But a familiar calm settled in, [Slow to Panic] humming quietly in his bones, steadying his pulse.
Nam didn't pause. "You're on," he said, thrusting a tablet at Vice. "Two critical care patients in the back rooms, eight and twelve. Watch 'em. Plus, handle the minor stuff the nurses can't. Don't screw it up." He turned away, barking at a nurse about a chart, leaving Vice clutching the tablet.
Vice exhaled, rubbing his temple where a faint ache was starting, and dove in. The tablet listed his first critical care patient, room eight, a middle-aged man, tan skin slick with sweat, chest heaving from a fractured rib cage after a fall.
Vice stepped in, the man's gasps sharp and ragged.
'He's struggling to breathe,' Vice thought, checking the monitor, oxygen low, pulse jumping. He adjusted the oxygen mask, thinking, 'More air, steady him out.' His fingers stayed steady despite a kid crying outside the glass pane.
The man's eyes locked on his, wide with pain. "You'll be okay," Vice said, forcing a tight smile. He upped the drip, 'Fluids will help,' he reasoned, watching saline flow faster. The numbers crept up, barely, and the man eased.
Vice marked him "on hold" on the tablet.
A ping hit his mind: [+5 LP]. He blinked, the system's glow flickering, but he shoved it down, no time, he only saw enough to see the points he had earned.
Room twelve was worse. A pale woman lay on the bed, shaking, her leg covered in blood from a bad scooter crash. Vice knelt beside her and gently pulled off the soaked bandage. Her bone was sticking out, broken and sharp, and blood kept pouring out.
'She's losing too much,' he thought. He snapped into action. "Get me clean clothes—now!" he shouted. A nurse rushed in with a pile of white pads.
He wrapped a strap tight around her thigh to slow the bleeding. The sound of blood squishing under his gloves made his stomach twist, but he kept going.
The woman gritted her teeth and held onto the bed rail, trying not to scream.
"She's in too pain," Vice muttered. "We need to give her a sedative—fast." He grabbed a small injector from the tray and pressed it gently into her arm. A soft hiss. Fast-acting pain relief. She blinked rapidly, her breathing still sharp, but the worst of the edge began to fade from her face.
"Hold her steady," he told the nurse. With steady hands, he carefully pushed the broken bone back into place. The woman cried out, but the drug was already working—dulling the pain enough to keep her from passing out.
"Almost there," he said quietly. He cleaned the area, used fresh cloths to cover the injury, and wrapped it up tight. Her breathing calmed. Her heart rate settled.
Vice finally let out a breath. [+25 LP].
His head pounded from exhaustion, but he ignored it.
She was alive. And he had saved her.
The minor's came next, a steady stream. A teen with a gashed arm from a kitchen slip, blood dripping in dark drops.
Vice grabbed a needle, 'Stitch it tight, stop the bleed,' he thought, working fast under the lights, the kid's curses fading to a whimper. [+10 LP].
A woman with a twisted ankle, swollen purple, winced as he wrapped it, 'Support it, let it heal,' he reasoned, her tan skin bruising fast. [+15 LP].
A guy with a scalded hand, blisters bubbling, grit his teeth as Vice smeared ointment, 'Cool it down, protect it,' he decided, the stench of burned flesh sharp. [+5 LP]. Six cases down, but two more popped up, red tags, beyond "minor." Vice flagged Nam, pointing at a guy with a knife in his left chest and a kid fainted with a feverish condition but something else. "I'm not sure about these cases" he said, voice tight.
Nam grumbled, snatching the tablet. "Should've caught this sooner, Xong," he muttered, disapproval thick, before handling them. Vice's stomach twisted, but his calm held, no panic, just a sting of falling short.
The calls kept coming, nurses needing him, patients groaning, a steady pull. [Slow to Panic] kept him grounded, a quiet thread in the bustle, like a part of him he didn't have to call up. Still, his shoulders ached, his legs grew heavy, and that headache dug in, a relentless beat.
Nam caught him mid-shift, thrusting a crumpled paper at him. "My number," he said, voice gruff.
"If Surgery hits, I'll call. Be ready." Vice nodded, pocketing it, and they split, Nam to the Operating Room, Vice back to work.
The hours blurred, patients and points piling up, until 6:45 PM hit.
He slumped against a wall, jacket dangling, shirt plastered with sweat. The cold he had felt earlier that day was a far gone illusion. Not after the final surgeries for the man with the dagger in him and another severe case later on.
His head pounded, temples squeezed tight, his throat dry when he swallowed. The system pinged: [275 LP earned]
Total: 470. From 195, he was climbing, but it didn't feel like enough.
Nam found him, arms crossed, looming like a tired bear. "Not bad, kid," he said, voice low, "but you're sloppy. Missed those reds, could've cost us." He dragged Vice to a break room, cracked chairs and a flickering holo-screen.
Nam jabbed the tablet, showing Vice's misses. "Cut bled too long, needed stitches sooner. Fever kid was actually Dengue fever." Nam pointed out ways to do better. "You didn't catch it fast." His tone was blunt, not cruel, each word a weight in Vice's gut.
Vice nodded, rubbing his aching neck, headache pulsing.
"I'll do better," he said, voice rough but firm, meeting Nam's eyes, before looking away. Nam grunted, tossing the tablet aside. "You'd better. Tomorrow's worse. It's gonna be your full day." He lumbered off, leaving Vice with the vending machine's hum and his misses.
He leaned back, head against the wall, the coolness easing the throb. '470 points,' he thought.
the system glowing faintly.
'580 LP, to go.' He was halfway there but today stung, those red tags, Nam's grumble, the lives he barely held. His legs trembled as he stood, exhaustion deep, but a fire sparked. 'No more average,' he'd sworn. This grind, although messy he would push harder. Tomorrow, he'd be ready. Grind now after all and the future would be better.
If only he knew that his night would be hijacked by a text message he ignored. Lisa.