Surviving as a Rogue Hospital Director - Chapter 75

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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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Chapter 75.
Compared to university hospitals, the defining characteristic of corporate hospitals was surely this: patients were customers.
If the patient was a customer and the customer was king, then medical care delivered as a service took on a distinctly courteous and considerate character.
One made decisions and bore the consequences; perhaps the relationship between doctor and patient was nothing more than business, but
in modern times, many people sought personal distance, and they chose hospitals accordingly.
Yet all of this was contingent upon one thing: medical expertise as the foundation.
Everything else was compared only under the assumption that illness could be cured. No one sought out a hospital because other amenities were appealing when their health showed no sign of improving.
That was why Kim Mu-hyung, executive director of the management planning division at Eunseong Hospital, worked tirelessly to bring skilled physicians to Eunseong Hospital.
“The Uigwonhoe conference? A conference, you say—I’m not sure what you mean….”
He was on a call in the emergency stairwell beside the freight elevator, a place few people passed through.
“Yes, yes. I understand what you’re saying. I’ll prepare without sparing any effort.”
As he continued the conversation, his expression grew graver, yet his tone remained smooth and accommodating.
“Right, I’ll head in now. I’ll contact you as soon as everything is sorted. Yes, yes.”
He slipped his phone into his pocket and leaned the back of his head against the wall.
“These old men are such a handful.”
The Uigwonhoe had operated under the principle that members’ identities remained confidential, but recently the chairman of Korea University Hospital had revealed himself, and one by one, others began to open up about who they were.
‘The Uigwonhoe must henceforth strengthen its solidarity on a foundation of trust.’
The organization that had once operated in secrecy gradually surfaced into the light. In fact, so many had disclosed their identities while waiting to be admitted that it had become commonplace.
When he first heard the argument that protecting physicians’ rights ensured patient health, he’d wondered if it made sense. But the more he heard it, the more it began to click.
‘Aren’t doctors human too? How am I supposed to treat patients if I’m dying myself?’
‘Lately, I’ve just been clocking out on time and enjoying my hobbies. It’s really great, honestly.’
As physicians pursued work-life balance, their job satisfaction rose alongside it.
After ending the call, Mu-hyung descended the emergency stairwell. Below, someone urgently called out to a middle-aged man in plainclothes.
“Pro, Professor! Huff, puff. Oh, thank goodness. I thought you’d already left. We got a page from the ER—the brain situation….”
Speaking as he rushed up the stairs, the Resident was out of breath, but the man he called Professor was unmistakably cold.
“Don’t you see I’m clocking out? Call someone else.”
“They’re all out on dispatch, sir. Phew. Right now, there’s only the Resident available.”
“What do you—”
“Um, well, they’re not picking up their calls. I checked their schedule and they’re in a conference right now…. The patient’s pupils dilated five minutes ago.”
“Call the attending professor. Keep calling and he’ll pick up eventually. I’ve got something urgent, so I’m heading out first. And hey—you didn’t see me. You understand, right?”
Unlike the anxious Resident, the Professor moved briskly, and the Resident sank into a crouch where he stood.
Though he had no particular stake in it, Mu-hyung found himself overhearing their exchange.
He rubbed his ears with his palm. The trouble with hearing was that you couldn’t choose what to listen to.
You could close your eyes if something was unpleasant to see, or pull your hand away if something was unpleasant to touch, but once ears were attached to your head, you couldn’t help but hear even what you wished to avoid.
‘That patient—whoever they are—I wonder if they’ll still be alive tomorrow.’
If there was a brain problem and the pupils had dilated, the patient could be in critical condition and die within minutes.
The Resident, unable to question the Professor’s urgent business, might be forced to watch helplessly as the patient slipped away, blaming himself all the while.
Leaving the crouching Resident behind, Mu-hyung opened the metal emergency stairwell door.
Screech.
Cold metal met his hand first, followed by an unpleasant sound.
“Ugh, what a nuisance. Why are they suddenly pushing for this Uigwonhoe conference?”
These impromptu conferences were all well and good on paper. Really, their main purpose was eating and drinking. Call it camaraderie if you like. Sure, camaraderie.
Mu-hyung had taken on the role of the junior member in the Uigwonhoe. Not the youngest in actual age, but it didn’t matter much.
If he maintained good relations, opportunities would naturally come his way. And Eunseong Hospital was in such desperate need of human capital—that is, physicians—that he could hardly afford to be selective about anything.
He’d already brought over nearly every Korean doctor from America, and there was still a shortage. At this point, he had no choice but to recruit from anywhere he could.
Then his phone rang again.
Beep-beep-beep.
‘What now? Someone calling about the dinner menu?’
Mu-hyung irritably pulled out his phone, glanced at the name on the screen, and nearly dropped it.
Chairman Han Myeong-jae, Korea University Hospital.
He answered within a second.
“Chairman, hello!”
“Ah, Director Kim. Hope you’re doing well. Things are fine here at Korea University Hospital too.”
“Yes, we’re getting by. Our hospital’s always the same—plenty of work, not enough people.”
“Ah, actually, that’s why I’m calling.”
“When you say that…?”
“About sending physicians on dispatch. Looks like it might be possible.”
“Really? Wow, that’s wonderful. If Korea University Hospital helps us, it’ll be such a tremendous boost.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll narrow down the candidates. Don’t get your hopes too high, just wait a bit. We’ll talk details later.”
Even after hanging up, Mu-hyung held his phone aloft in both hands.
‘Yes! All that hard work paid off.’
* * *
The next day.
Beom-jun sat across the table from Chairman Han Myeong-jae and Vice President Gu Hui-jeong.
At once, the Chairman singled out Beom-jun and spoke.
“We’re going to send physicians on dispatch to Eunseong Hospital. Director Choi, you draw up the personnel list. It’s a six-month term, though it could extend. We’ll only be sending professors.”
He could roughly understand why Eunseong Hospital had come from the Chairman’s lips. Because the patient in the next episode was an Eunseong Hospital patient. More precisely, the youngest daughter of the Eunseong family, suffering from a hereditary illness.
Market cap alone was ten trillion won. The Eunseong Group ranked among the top ten richest conglomerates, not just in Korea but worldwide,
but when the youngest daughter’s seizures wouldn’t resolve, they’d come to Korea University Hospital.
Yet now the Chairman was saying he’d send Korea University Hospital’s physicians instead of having the patient come here. The more quests he cleared, the more the narrative of Doctor X was shifting.
And the moment the Chairman finished speaking, a status window appeared.
[Main Quest Generated.]
[Main Quest: Prevent Human Capital Outflow]
Block Korea University Hospital physicians from being dispatched externally and prepare for the personnel shortage.
Reward: Survival Probability +3%
Failure: Death
Seeing the status window, Beom-jun was certain: yes, stopping the Chairman’s nonsense was the right call.
“In difficult times, shouldn’t we share the burden? Korea University Hospital must set an example. We’re different from other hospitals—we’re a national central hospital, as they say. When Korea University Hospital does something, other hospitals naturally follow suit.”
The Chairman invoked public healthcare. It wasn’t wrong—when Korea University Hospital attempted something new, the other top-four hospitals did tend to eye it nervously before gradually following.
But in Doctor X, Chairman Han Myeong-jae was far from a righteous figure.
He spoke of serving Korea University Hospital, but behind closed doors, he was only concerned with padding his own pockets. What was his real angle?
“There should be another option. Let’s consider an approach that doesn’t burden us.”
The Vice President seated beside him offered no opinion and sat like a condemned prisoner.
“Director Choi certainly has plenty of ideas. Stop tinkering with the hospital and go do this instead. Once you pilot it and come back, everything will work out fine. It’ll be a good opportunity for you too.”
The implication was that Beom-jun himself would be going along with the physicians.
Beom-jun swallowed a bitter laugh.
‘So that’s what this is. His aim is to push me out? And what crime did the physicians caught up in this commit?’
The Chairman had orchestrated it smoothly, and Beom-jun clenched his fists. As his fingernails dug into his palms, the pain actually cooled his mind.
“We’ve already finished discussing things with Eunseong Hospital. If you want, we can even put it to the board for a vote.”
The board would almost certainly defer to the Chairman nine times out of ten, making the vote meaningless.
Beom-jun’s mind raced.
Now that a quest had appeared, he absolutely could not agree. He had to block this.
“…So only the duration and personnel are set, then?”
He questioned the Chairman, drawing out the specific details.
“Ah yes, Eunseong apparently wants professors from essential medical disciplines. Pediatrics, thoracic surgery, neurosurgery. The first dispatch will be these three departments.”
Except for pediatrics, the others were within Beom-jun’s reach. And the Chairman had further buttressed the argument with the phrase “essential medical disciplines,” ensuring Beom-jun couldn’t easily back out.
Thoracic surgery had only one professor: Im Sung-hyuk. The fact that they were sending the only professor in that department—what, did they think his brain was for decoration?
But at least now he saw an angle. Beom-jun had formulated a counterattack.
“That won’t work.”
At Beom-jun’s words, the Vice President, who had begun to stand, awkwardly settled back into his seat.
“It’s impossible. The problem isn’t just them leaving—the remaining medical staff will face increased strain. And if Professor Im Sung-hyuk goes on dispatch, Korea University Hospital will have no thoracic surgery professors. We won’t meet the standards for an Advanced General Hospital. We can’t maintain the twenty required clinical departments.”
If you failed to meet Advanced General Hospital standards, your insurance reimbursement rates were set lower. Even for identical treatments, the National Health Insurance Service would pay less.
Therefore, even if operating at a loss, an Advanced General Hospital had to maintain twenty clinical departments, or face demotion to a standard hospital.
“The loss in medical revenue alone would be at least ten billion won. If Korea University Hospital is demoted from Advanced General Hospital status, we’d be dropped from the top-four hospitals.”
“What do you mean the professor is missing? What do you mean there’s only one thoracic surgery professor, Im Sung-hyuk?”
The Chairman seemed to have forgotten that he himself had deliberately created this situation by discouraging Im Sung-hyuk.
“…You really don’t understand the reality of operations at all.”
At Beom-jun’s remark, the Chairman appeared momentarily flustered. Charitable work was one thing, but where else would one sacrifice such massive losses in the name of service?
“Didn’t you speak of physicians’ rights? Why are you trampling on those same rights now?”
“Hmm, rights, you say? Supporting a new hospital through public healthcare is the natural duty of an established institution.”
The more the Chairman insisted otherwise, the more it stank. Beom-jun’s eyes narrowed.
“During the dispatch, we’ll just manage the medical gap as best we can. Postpone treatment as much as possible. Schedule consultations more tightly—see each patient for just two minutes.”
The Chairman was telling him to delay aggressive treatments like surgeries indefinitely and to squeeze consultations into tighter slots.
It meant the physicians would omit time-intensive treatments and shuttle between Eunseong Hospital and Korea University Hospital.
“Look, Director Choi, where’s your resourcefulness? If you handle it slickly, no one will notice.”
Strictly speaking, this wasn’t illegal—it was a loophole. Above all, patients would suffer health loss while enduring the strain.
“So the man who loves public healthcare is now willing to sacrifice patients?”
At the Chairman’s contradictory words, Beom-jun let out a hollow laugh.
He glared, his eyes bright and cold, and smiled. A sharp, crystalline gleam flickered in his gaze.
“How about we do this instead.”
He proposed a method that honored Eunseong Hospital’s request while also benefiting Korea University Hospital—without any strain.

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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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