When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

(S02) Chapter 34

The operating room was cold. Sterile. A world of harsh whites and beeping machines. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, illuminating the pale, unconscious body on the table. Monitors hummed with a steady rhythm—blood pressure, oxygen saturation, heart rate—all dancing to a silent melody only we were trained to hear.

I stood beside the anesthesia machine, the mask secured to the patient’s face. Everything was routine. My gloved hands moved on instinct, checking vitals, adjusting settings, confirming sedation depth.

But my mind wasn’t here.

Not really.

I hadn’t seen Han Wool in a week. Not since the funeral. He texted every day—soft, patient messages asking if I was okay. Telling me it wasn’t my fault. That I wasn’t the reason.

I never really replied.

I couldn’t.

Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw Harin. The way her mother screamed on the riverbank. The way the sky wept gray, and the water looked like it was swallowing the truth with it.

And the last message she ever sent me—"You ruined my life."

How could that not be my fault?

“Dr. Ye Na,” the lead surgeon called out, her tone clipped. “Patient’s pressure’s rising. What’s the reading on the propofol line?”

I blinked.

Everyone turned to me.

Shit. What did she just ask?

“I—I’m sorry, what was—?”

“Ye Na.” It was Woo Joon’s voice now, tense and quiet as he stepped closer. “You didn’t adjust the infusion rate.”

My stomach dropped.

The IV drip hadn’t been recalibrated. The patient’s sedation was thinning. I missed it.

The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. “Out. Now.”

“I—”

“I said out, Dr. Ye Na. Someone else take over.”

Everything moved too fast. My hands shook as I stepped back from the table. Woo Joon took my place, already fixing the issue I should’ve caught. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating. I could feel eyes on me, but no one said anything.

I slipped out of the OR, the door closing behind me with a sharp hiss.

In the hallway, I pulled off my gloves, peeled off my mask. My legs felt weak. My throat burned.

And for the first time in days, I let myself breathe.

But it didn’t help.

Because the guilt still clung to me like blood.

I leaned against the cool wall outside the OR, pressing my palms into my thighs to stop the shaking.

One mistake.

A split second of distraction
.
In this line of work, that’s all it takes.

I could’ve hurt someone.

Killed someone.

And for what?

Because I couldn’t stop thinking about a girl who was already dead?
Because I couldn’t stop hearing her last words like a curse stitched behind my ribs?

My throat tightened. I blinked fast, fighting the tears stinging my eyes. But it was no use.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, legs pulled close, forehead resting on my knees. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. Every sound that echoed felt like a reminder—I shouldn’t be here. I wasn’t okay.