Surviving as a Rogue Hospital Director - Chapter 24

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 24.
“….”
“….”
The clink of tableware punctuated the silence—utensils striking against plate and bowl. Seong Hyeok and Beom Jun hadn’t exchanged a word.
“…You come here often?”
“Yes, I’m a regular.”
A hidden gem that Jae Gyeong had recommended, though it was near the hospital regardless. For Seong Hyeok, who practically lived at the hospital, there probably wasn’t a restaurant in the vicinity he hadn’t visited.
Silence stretched between them. To an outside observer, the scene would have been hopelessly awkward, but Beom Jun was reading Seong Hyeok’s emotions through the system’s effect.
[Through the Loyalty Effect, Seong Hyeok’s emotions are being shared.]
Seong Hyeok had been startled when he first saw Beom Jun, but once the gukbap arrived, he ate with genuine pleasure and now sat contentedly full.
Beom Jun smiled inwardly. The man was refreshingly simple.
“Slurp-slurp-slurp.”
“Slurp.”
Beom Jun and Seong Hyeok finished their bowls with practiced ease, sweeping up the last of the broth and noodles.
“Your hair—what is that? It’s way too long.”
As they left the gukbap restaurant, Beom Jun spoke to Seong Hyeok, who was running his fingers through his own hair, trying to gauge its length without a mirror.
Beom Jun exhaled sharply, watching him. Left to his own devices, it was obvious the man would never get a haircut.
“Come on. I was heading to get mine cut anyway.”
Put so directly, Seong Hyeok complied without protest and followed.
Beom Jun brought Seong Hyeok, whose hair was shaggy and unkempt, to get a cut at an upscale barber shop where they also trimmed his beard for him.
The two sat side by side wrapped in cape-like cloth, falling into the same wordless rhythm.
“….”
“….”
‘Fascinated by the place. That’s funny.’
Beom Jun could sense that the man with his stoic face was genuinely curious about the barber shop, though he said nothing.
“So what do you do with the money you earn?”
“I don’t really spend it anywhere. I tend to work through stress by sleeping.”
Emergency cases where patients teeter on the edge of life and death exact a heavy psychological toll on the attending physician, and for Seong Hyeok—given the nature of thoracic surgery—such situations repeated almost daily.
It was a vital specialty; unlike non-vital fields like ophthalmology or dermatology, the stress was simply incomparable.
The feeling of deciding each day whose life continues and whose ends—that weight was impossible to convey to anyone who hadn’t lived it.
Day after day, Seong Hyeok must be carrying the weight of a man attending a funeral at his own wedding—miserable, stripped of any joy in life itself.
Beom Jun decided he needed to hear what Seong Hyeok truly carried inside.
“No hobbies? And you don’t seem to spend much time with people.”
In , he had worked endlessly seeing patients and solving cases. Episodes often overlapped as one patient after another was admitted.
The occasional lighter case between critical patients—that was about all the relief he got.
‘Even doing nothing doesn’t fully recharge him. How could that possibly count as rest for a doctor?’
Beom Jun wondered if the writer was deliberately trying to work Seong Hyeok to death.
“I get out like this sometimes. It’s hard to maintain any routine, really.”
Seong Hyeok spoke with a self-deprecating laugh. Though he looked like an iron man, he must surely be showing physical signs of strain.
When he was on call, he’d work consecutive 48-hour shifts. If his body didn’t break down, that would be abnormal.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m selling my own health to give it to my patients.”
That was a thought Beom Jun had entertained himself—that a doctor was trading his own health to save his patients’ lives.
“If it gets tough, tell me. You feel better after talking, right? Who knows—there might be a way.”
As the barber washed his hair, Beom Jun heard the sound of water mixed with Seong Hyeok’s complaints. Rather than respond, he simply listened.
“There you go! All done. Thank you for your patience.”
Both emerged from the Barber Shop looking considerably more put-together.
Seong Hyeok ran his fingers through his freshly cut hair and spoke.
“…Director, if you’re free, we could grab a drink.”
This time, Seong Hyeok led the way to a nearby Whisky Bar.
The interior was dim, with indirect lighting casting a soft glow off the walls and ceiling.
Behind the bartender, bottles of liquor were arranged in neat rows, each with its own distinct color and shape—unlike doctors, who all looked much the same regardless of what they wore under their white coats.
“It seems the hospital has changed quite a lot since you returned as director.”
“Has it?”
Only the Thoracic Surgery Department had changed, yet he spoke as if the entire Korean University Hospital had been transformed.
It didn’t matter. Seong Hyeok lived in his own world anyway.
“But what about you?”
Beom Jun pressed him directly.
“Honestly, I was surprised something could change so much. The way I see patients is completely different.”
Before, when seeing a patient like Seo Jin Ha, Seong Hyeok would have had to be the connecting thread between the Organ Transplant Center and Cheon Hee University Hospital.
“I was supposed to handle everything from start to finish with my patients, because that was always how it was. So I wondered if doing it this way was actually right.”
Seong Hyeok’s words came out slightly slurred as the alcohol took hold.
“Don’t worry about the rest. You just keep focusing on your patients like you are now. Leave everything else to me.”
Seong Hyeok couldn’t easily agree to this.
“Why? Don’t you trust me?”
“No, it’s not that.”
Seong Hyeok had benefited from Beom Jun’s position as director more than once; he couldn’t possibly doubt him.
But a man with Seong Hyeok’s fierce independence needed to do everything himself from beginning to end—that was simply how he felt secure. He preferred making decisions alone without consulting others.
That was why his Medical History Taking ability was particularly weak. Struggling to connect with patients, he couldn’t listen and respond to what they were telling him.
‘I need to make him gradually learn to rely on others.’
Seong Hyeok, the protagonist of , had to survive for Beom Jun to have any chance at surviving at Korean University Hospital.
So when the opportunity came, Beom Jun had to make him believe that each person could play their own role.
He didn’t seem to want to be director yet, but there was no telling what the future held.
“You can’t do everything alone. The same goes for treatment. A primary care doctor doesn’t do all of it.”
At Beom Jun’s words, Seong Hyeok’s drowsy eyes opened slightly.
“If not the primary care doctor, who else?”
At that, Beom Jun smiled broadly.
A hospital is a place where countless professions gather in one location: nurses, clinical pathologists, paramedics, radiologists, physical therapists, pharmacists, nutritionists, and more.
And the one who plays the biggest role in treatment is the patient themselves.
“The patient, you fool. If a doctor doesn’t know this, what can you do?”
Soon an elderly man would be admitted who would change Seong Hyeok’s thinking. Someone more proactive and resolute than anyone he’d met.
“Seong Hyeok, you have to listen to what your patients say. Especially about pain. They might feel something before any test can show it.”
Beom Jun had given him a hint.
* * *
The definition of elderly keeps expanding. The UN classifies youth as ages 18 to 65.
As lifespans have lengthened, so too have retirement ages, to the point that calling someone in their sixties a grandfather feels almost off. The age demographics of surgical patients have shifted accordingly.
Before, considering risk and remaining lifespan, surgery was rarely recommended for patients over sixty—recovery itself required significant time and effort.
But Seong Hyeok tended to operate even on older patients if they wished it, sometimes modifying the invasiveness of the procedure.
“Father, are you really sure about this?”
An elderly man came to Seong Hyeok’s clinic with his daughter-in-law.
“I can’t live like this, gasping for breath. Fix me up, doctor. Even if I die tomorrow, I want to live comfortably today.”
He was a man in his seventies who had taken hypertension medication continuously for thirty years, starting in his early forties.
There are several methods for correcting high blood pressure.
The primary approach is using diuretics to reduce fluid volume in the body. As the blood volume in the body decreases, blood pressure—the force of blood flow—naturally drops.
Other methods include widening blood vessels, preventing vessel constriction, or slowing the heart rate to reduce cardiac output.
Typically, as patients age, multiple medications are combined and dosages increased.
Kim Pan Soo was a patient admitted for Pacemaker insertion due to heart failure—his heart rate had been regulated so much that his breathing became dangerously slow.
The resulting dyspnea was so severe he couldn’t lie down comfortably to sleep.
“If I could just get one good, deep sleep and wake up rested, I’d have nothing left to ask for. It’s not just a night or two of waking up gasping!”
The white-haired old man spoke as he removed his homburg hat. The suit he wore, complete top and bottom, was not of recent style, but it was neat and dignified.
“You’ve been on medication for quite a long time.”
Seong Hyeok spoke while reviewing the chart.
Kim Pan Soo had been transferred from the Cardiology Department, where medication had proved ineffective and he was now seeking more aggressive treatment.
– Kim Pan Soo / 72 years old
– CC (Chief Complaint): Dyspnea
– Patient continues to exhibit bradycardia with medication increase now limited. Seeking aggressive treatment including surgery; referred to Thoracic Surgery Department.
It was true there were concerns about whether he could withstand the operation,
‘But we have to try.’
Seong Hyeok spoke to Kim Pan Soo.
“There’s a device called a Pacemaker. It regulates the speed at which your heart beats. We can attempt it in your current situation.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
At the news that surgery was possible, Kim Pan Soo broke into a smile.
“Then just get your admission date on your way out. There’s nothing special to watch out for—just live as you normally do and come back.”
Though his heart rate was slow, the situation wasn’t immediately critical, so they’d likely see him a few months down the line.
“Very well.”
Kim Pan Soo rose from the clinic chair. He gripped the desk with his left hand, then flinched and hunched his shoulder.
“Ow, why is my shoulder acting up again? Is this frozen shoulder?”
He rotated his left shoulder, but it didn’t seem to provide much relief.
Seong Hyeok watched him carefully. Normally, he wouldn’t have paid attention. The consultation was already complete, and the patient’s test results showed nothing unusual—nothing beyond the bradycardia the Cardiology Department had mentioned.
But then he recalled words he’d heard recently, spending a day off with the hospital director.
“Seong Hyeok, you have to listen to what your patients say. Especially about pain. They might feel something before any test can show it.”
He spoke to Kim Pan Soo, who was about to leave.
“Wait a moment. Is it only your shoulder that hurts? What about your jaw? Your inner arm?”
“Yes, that’s right. From here all the way to here—it feels like a tightness.”
What he indicated was his left jaw and upper arm. They shared the same sensory nerves as the heart. The brain often fails to pinpoint pain accurately, leading a person to feel pain in their arm when the actual problem lies elsewhere.
Upon hearing this, Seong Hyeok checked Kim Pan Soo’s blood test results.
‘CK-MB and Troponin are both normal. But that’s referred pain
*
I think.’
*When pain originating from a diseased area radiates to surrounding regions.
Seong Hyeok had judged for himself rather than asking the patient. He’d looked at the test results instead of listening to the patient piece by piece.
“I think it would be best to do a cardiac ultrasound.”
But he called back Kim Pan Soo, who was leaving. It was the moment when he placed the patient’s words before his own judgment.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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