Chapter 33
Kim Ji-hyun pushed the paper bag a little closer.
“Please, take it. It’s just a small thank-you gift.”
“I understand how you feel. We truly appreciate your kindness,” said Nurse Lee Soo-yeon gently.
“Did I come too late? My work ended late, I thought maybe it’s too late now,” Ji-hyun said hesitantly.
“It’s not that. Why would you say something like that? Oh dear…”
Even Nurse Soo-yeon looked flustered now.
Then Ji-hyun lowered her gaze to the paper bag, her eyes glistening.
“My mom spent the whole day making these. She said she really wanted to show her gratitude… even if just like this.”
Her voice trembled faintly.
Those words slipped into Daeho’s ears.
He froze.
Lee Young-rae’s face immediately came to mind — the patient who had undergone an emergency procedure for a critical stroke.
It had only been a day ago — exactly twenty-three hours since he performed the procedure.
He could already imagine her current condition vividly.
She probably couldn’t even hold a spoon properly yet.
Her mind would still be foggy, words might come out jumbled.
But she had made kimbap.
Not just one roll — dozens.
If her current condition was that fragile, she must have spent hours sweating and struggling just to make them.
Daeho thought quietly, his heart settling.
If it were me… could I do the same?
He didn’t think he could.
While the two women continued their awkward back-and-forth, their exchange was slowly coming to an end.
“Miss Ji-hyun, we’re truly grateful. Really.”
“So… we can’t accept them?”
“It’s just that… by hospital rules, we can’t accept gifts like this,” said Nurse Soo-yeon apologetically.
And at that moment—
Rustle.
Daeho reached out and took hold of the paper bag.
“I’ll eat it.”
Both women looked startled.
“W-what?”
“Doctor?”
Their reactions were completely opposite.
Daeho looked straight at Ji-hyun.
“But just this once.”
“Huh?”
“Please tell your mother this — rehabilitation and overworking are two very different things.”
His tone was cool, but the advice was sincere.
Instead of feeling offended, Ji-hyun smiled brightly.
“Yes. Thank you. I’ll tell her, I promise.”
“Then you should head home now.”
Daeho brushed past her and walked toward the emergency room doors.
A short while later, he returned to the ER.
Only Nurse Hwang Semi was sitting at the nurse’s station.
“Where is everyone?” Daeho asked.
“Uuuh… they left me alone! Everyone went to eat the kimbap without me,” she whined like a child.
She was in her mid-twenties, lively and playful — a true MZ generation nurse.
“I’ll go join them,” Daeho said, walking past her.
“Wait, what! You too? You’re joining them and leaving me alone?!”
He didn’t answer. Just a casual wave as he walked off toward the break room.
The “break room” was really just an old emergency surgery room, now used as storage.
Old wheelchairs, IV poles, and other unused equipment cluttered the space.
But a table had been set up in one corner, where the staff had gathered.
Clack.
As soon as he opened the door, the scent of sesame oil filled the air.
“Mm… that smell,” Daeho muttered as his stomach growled.
Park Jin-gyu turned around awkwardly.
“Richard, I think this kimbap’s gone a little bad.”
“Yeah, it spoils fast… what should we do?”
“She worked so hard to make these…”
The residents and nurses all looked torn and guilty.
They wanted to honor the patient’s gesture, but eating spoiled food wasn’t a good idea.
Daeho’s eyes landed on the kimbap.
Without hesitation, he reached out and picked up one roll.
He brought it close to his nose — the pleasant sesame aroma was there, but something sour lingered beneath it.
After a moment’s thought, he turned toward the door.
“Then…”
He started walking out.
“Hey, Richard, don’t eat that! You’ll get food poisoning!”
“Please don’t, Doctor! Just tell her it was delicious!”
He ignored their protests, raised his hand slightly, and kept walking.
Outside, he bit off the end of the kimbap.
Chew, chew.
“Mm. Tastes… amazing.”
Then he carefully rewrapped the rest in foil.
He couldn’t eat more — not when it was spoiled.
But he also couldn’t throw it away.
That was his decision.
He looked down at the foil-wrapped roll again.
It was the first gift he had ever received from a patient.
Honestly, it tasted better than the luxury kimbap he’d had in high-end Korean restaurants in Washington.
It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t fancy.
But it was perfect.
If it hadn’t spoiled, he could’ve eaten ten rolls.
He smiled faintly.
It was delicious because it came from someone who had escaped death —
and it was a thank-you gift from that patient.
And he had been the one to save her.
