Chapter Text
The anatomical building of the medical university smells of antiseptic, old paper, and silence. Just like everywhere else, really. The tiled hallways echo with footsteps, and students scurry back and forth. Han Jisung has been walking these corridors for two years now, but he still hasn't gotten used to this feeling — when you exist, but no one sees you.
Jisung isn't the type who draws attention. A gray hoodie two sizes too big, bangs that constantly fall into his eyes, hunched shoulders. Twenty years old. Skinny and unnoticeable. He sits in the tenth row by the wall, at the very last desk, where he can see the entire lecture hall and no one turns to look at him.
"I heard Lee Minho is going to be at our class today," Kim Seungmin, Jisung's classmate and friend, whispers from the side. "They say he's a beast. The best professor in the pathophysiology department, but he can't stand stupid students."
"I heard," Jisung answers quietly, though he's actually heard much more. That Lee Minho defended his dissertation at twenty-six, that he interned at Seoul National Hospital, that he rarely praises anyone and never repeats himself twice. And that students are afraid of him.
Jisung isn't afraid. He stopped being afraid of professors a long time ago. Home. That's the place where you really need to be afraid. But here, at the university, his ultimate goal is to remain invisible. An invisible guy doesn't get bad grades. An invisible guy finishes his classes and leaves.
Minho enters the lecture hall right as the bell rings. Not a second earlier, not a second later. He is a man without a single flaw. Everything about him is rigid: the dark suit, the white shirt, the perfectly straight part in his hair. His face isn't angry, as they say, but somehow stony.
"I don't like long greetings. My name is Lee Minho. Some of you may have already familiarized yourselves with my collections. From now on, I will be teaching this subject, as I transferred here from another university. I don't like tardiness, stupid answers, and shouting out of turn. And without further ado, open 'Robbins and Cotran' to the chapter on systemic inflammation," he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose and scans the rows. "You there, the guy in the third row with the red hair."
Yang Jeongin. The youngest in the class. His older brother is a successful pediatrician in Busan, and he's the one who recommended he enroll in this university.
"Yang Jeongin."
"Yang. Open the third chapter and read out a couple of definitions that you find relevant to the lecture."
The lecture hall understands — class is starting. Jisung writes his notes in small, cramped handwriting. Sometimes he lifts his eyes to Minho — just to make sure that he isn't being seen.
Forty minutes later, the professor sits down on a chair and stares at the ceiling while the students solve a problem. Jisung finishes first, but he doesn't raise his hand. No need to stand out.
"Han," a voice suddenly sounds right by his ear. Jisung flinches. Minho had come up through the rows and stood so quietly that you couldn't even hear him breathing. "You've finished. Show me."
Jisung holds out his notebook with trembling fingers. Minho takes it, scans the lines with what seems to Jisung to be painful attention.
"Not bad. You know how to pick out the essentials, that's commendable," he hands the notebook back without even looking Jisung directly in the eye. And he leaves just as soundlessly.
After class, Seungmin comes up and says:
"Well, it could have been worse. I heard he once told some guy, 'You're wasting your tuition money, go work as a taxi driver.'"
"Maybe he was right," Jisung shrugs and packs his bag.
He thinks that this exchange with Minho was a coincidence. That the professor didn't remember his face, or his name. But for some reason, that short phrase, "You've finished," makes his chest ache — in a way that feels like someone had actually looked at him.
On the bus, when no one is watching, Jisung examines his notebook. Where Minho had corrected him by hand, an indentation remains: firm, deep, as if the professor was accustomed to leaving a mark.
Jisung doesn't hurry home. And he knows that no one is waiting behind the door with a "how was your day?" Father is on shift, mother is always gone. The room is cold, the wallpaper peeling in the corners. The apartment smells of alcohol and tobacco. He takes his imaginary dinner out of the microwave, sits on the floor, and eats to the sound of the TV, which is never turned off.
Before sleep, he opens his phone, scrolls through the university page. He sees a photo of Minho from some conference: he's smiling unnaturally, as if he was forced to. The comments say: "Lee Minho is a crush, but he would destroy me in class, I'd better not go near him."
Jisung turns off the screen. He doesn't think Minho destroys anyone.
He falls asleep on a thin mattress on the floor.
He doesn't dream of anything.
---
Three weeks later, something happens that changes everything. But at first, Jisung doesn't know it.
The schedule changes, and the second year gets a practicum in emergency diagnostics, taught by Lee Minho. Six classes a week. Ten hours when they are in the same room.
Jisung, out of habit, sits in the corner. But in the practicum, there are no corners — it's a small simulation room where students practice skills on mannequins and on each other. Minho walks among them like a tiger in a cage: slowly, purposefully, sometimes stopping over someone's shoulder to say, "not like that."
Jisung ends up paired with Lee Felix. He's the class representative, an incredibly handsome guy with an open, freckled face and a steady hand. Felix is reliable. Felix is friends with everyone. He's one of the few who occasionally exchanges a word with Jisung during the break, things like, "why are you so pale," or "did you sleep okay?" Jisung nods. He always nods.
"Try establishing venous access on the mannequin," Felix says. "Your hands are small, you'll manage."
Jisung tries. He does it — almost perfectly. But when Minho approaches their table, Jisung feels his face flood with color, and the intubation tube slips from his hands.
"Han, what are you doing," Minho's voice is flat. "Your hands are shaking. This isn't an exam. Relax."
Jisung bites his lip. He wants to say: "I can't relax when you're standing so close." But instead, he forces out:
"Sorry."
Minho gives him a strange look. Perhaps, for the first time, seeing a person who apologizes for being anxious. He doesn't answer, but he watches Jisung's hands for a couple of seconds — thin, bluish from the cold wrists, knuckles covered in small scratches.
"Change the needle," Minho throws out. "And breathe. We don't need arrhythmias from hyperventilation here."
He walks away, but something in his intonation was different. Not like usual.
Felix nudges him with his elbow:
"Oh, he liked you."
"Don't say that," Jisung whispers, because the word "liked" causes him pain. He knows that nobody likes him. Not truly, not really.
After the practicum, he stays behind to help put the mannequins away. Better to be here, in the empty room, where no one is watching.
Minho doesn't leave either. He's writing something in a journal, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"Han," Minho says without looking up. "You missed the stage of septic shock in your notes. Make sure you read it and write it down."
"Okay."
"And eat properly. Your fingers are almost transparent."
Jisung freezes. Minho seems to freeze too. Perhaps that phrase slipped out by accident.
"I just have cold hands," Jisung replies, clenching them into fists.
Minho looks him straight in the eye for the first time. Eyes meeting eyes.
"That's a lie, Han," he says quietly. "And a poor medical lie."
And he leaves, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Jisung stands in the empty classroom, leaning his back against the table, and feels a tear roll down his cheek. Shameful, hot, disgusting. "Why did he notice me?" flashes through his head. "Why does no one see, but this man — sees? No, God, I'm twenty years old. I'm like a little child."
He quickly wipes his cheek with his sleeve, grabs his bag, and leaves through the back exit. It's drizzling outside, and he walks the two kilometers home, listening to music, drowning out his thoughts.
On the way, a familiar voice calls out to him — Hwang Hyunjin, a guy with long hair and a French accent, whom Jisung vaguely remembers from volunteering at St. Mary's Hospital, when he helped him move equipment between rooms. Actually, Jisung always thought this guy wasn't doing exactly what he wanted to be doing. But he doesn't ask.
"Hey! Uh, Jisung, right? I remember you! Are you okay?" Hyunjin leans toward him under an umbrella. "You look like you're about to collapse."
"I'm fine," Jisung answers automatically, but this time, he's almost not lying. He is fine.
"Are you going home? Let me walk you..."
"It's not necessary. It's not far, thank you for your concern."
Jisung quickly bows and, not hearing Hyunjin's subsequent shouts, runs off towards home. Too many interactions. Too many people. Too much.
---
At the next practicum, Minho assigned the pairs himself. Jisung expected to be put with Felix again, but the professor glanced briefly at the list and said:
"Han, today you are incredibly lucky. You don't have a partner, but I can offer my lab assistant."
"Hey," Hyunjin smiled, taking his place at the neighboring mannequin. His voice was low, contrasting with his angelic face. "You're Jisung, right? I saw you on the street a week ago, remember? And we volunteered together last year. You spent the whole day hauling equipment then..."
"Ah... Hi. I remember you," Jisung lowered his eyes to the floor. He was sure he blended into the hospital walls.
"I hope you got home safely then," Hyunjin shrugged.
Jisung didn't know what to answer. No one had ever said something like that to him.
Today they were practicing applying a splint for a forearm fracture. Hwang was the model: he stretched out his arm, and Jisung, trying not to tremble, began applying the fixator.
Minho walked between the rows. Jisung felt his presence with his back. That dotted line that appeared when someone was staring intently at the back of his head. Jisung stumbled, tightened the bandage more than necessary. Hyunjin winced.
"You're not breathing," Hyunjin noted quietly.
"I am," Jisung lied.
"No," Felix looked him in the eyes with sudden seriousness. "You just turned paler than the first snow."
That was a joke, Jisung realized a second later. The guy was trying to lighten the mood.
"Sorry," Jisung exhaled and loosened the bandage.
"It's okay," the corners of Hyunjin's lips twitched. "You just try really hard. It shows."
Minho stopped nearby. He didn't make a remark, just took the free end of the bandage from Jisung's hands and, quickly, professionally, secured the splint in two motions.
"Like this," he said. "Calmly. The fixator shouldn't dig in — it should hold."
And he left. As if nothing had happened.
Hyunjin followed him with his gaze, then shifted his eyes to Jisung.
"Does he always do that?" he asked curiously.
"Who?"
"The prof. With you."
Jisung blushed.
"I don't know. Probably, he's like that with everyone."
He hummed and didn't argue, but Jisung could see from his face — he didn't believe it.
After class, Jisung, out of habit, stayed behind to put the supplies away in the cupboard. He was about to leave when he noticed a blue notebook on the professor's desk. "Mine." He would have recognized that faded spine out of a thousand.
He hadn't left his notebook here. That meant it had migrated here from his desk. Why?
"Ah, Han," Minho's voice sounded from the doorway. Jisung jumped on the spot. "I took your notebook to have a look. You have excellent lecture notes. But here..." Minho approached, opened the notebook to the middle, and tapped his finger on a paragraph. "Your interpretation of lab values for pancreatitis is incomplete."
"Okay..." Jisung mumbled, taking the notebook.
Minho didn't let go of it, and for a few seconds, they stood like that — one holding one corner, the other holding the other.
"You didn't ask why I took your notebook without permission," Minho noted.
"You're the professor," Jisung shrugged. "You can."
"I can," Minho released the notebook. "But usually students get indignant. They say it's an invasion of privacy."
Jisung pressed the notebook to his chest.
"There's nothing personal in my notes. Just summaries."
Minho looked at him with a long gaze. In that gaze, Jisung read something he couldn't put into words: "That's the problem, Han. You're afraid to put anything in your notebook besides studying."
But out loud, Minho only said:
"Next time, I'll ask permission."
"Thank you," Jisung replied and ran out of the classroom, feeling that the blue cover had heated up in his hands, as if it were alive.
---
"You haven't been yourself lately, Sung-ah. Is everything okay?"
Seungmin didn't leave his friend's side for a minute. Although everyone thought this guy was aloof and quiet, all those rumors dissolved the moment Jisung came into his field of vision. Although Han himself thought it was hard to call them friends, as he felt he didn't do enough for it. But he was still grateful for it anyway. Sometimes it seems that at twenty years old, you want to hold onto at least one person you can talk to a little, or it will be too late. Despite childhood fears.
"I'm fine, Min. Just not getting enough sleep."
"That's bad, you know it yourself. What, is Lee Minho sucking all the life out of you?"
Jisung instantly became flustered.
"What does he have to do with it?"
"I don't know. I just want to point out that he treats you too specially. You don't annoy him, like some of our lot do," Seungmin takes portions of seafood pasta and places them on the nearest table.
"Don't make things up. Everything's as usual."
"He's unbearable when it comes to coffee, by the way," Hyunjin butts into the conversation unceremoniously, spreading butter on toast and sitting down next to the guys. "We went to a conference last week, and he made the driver circle three coffee shops before he found one where they put cinnamon in as a stick, not ground."
"What's the point of this?" Jisung asked, though he shouldn't have asked.
"I'm a lab assistant in his department, remember?" Hyunjin smiled his sly smile. "I've seen him in an informal setting. He even laughs. Sometimes."
"No way," Jisung laughed quietly. The sound of his own laughter felt alien to him, long unused. Hyunjin noticed this and nodded contentedly.
"Listen," Seungmin said, lowering his voice. "Haven't you thought that he might be... well, keeping an eye on you?"
"He keeps an eye on everyone," Jisung waved it off, though his heart did a somersault.
"On everyone, yes," Hyunjin paused. "But he doesn't return forgotten notebooks with corrections to everyone personally. I caught a glimpse."
Jisung couldn't find an answer and stared down at the table.
After lunch, he was walking down the long corridor of the first building and bumped into Minho literally nose to nose. The professor came around the corner with two cups of coffee in his hands — one with a cinnamon stick, the second, as it seemed to Jisung, just black.
"Ah, Han," Minho swayed slightly, trying to keep his balance. "Can you tell me where room 207 is now? They had a reshuffle there, I forgot."
"It's on the second floor, left from the stairs," Jisung answered. "The door is at the end, they put up a new sign."
"Thank you."
Minho wanted to walk past, but Jisung suddenly said, not knowing why himself:
"Your coffee is spilling."
Indeed, a thin stream was seeping from under the lid of the second cup. Minho cursed under his breath, tried to press the cup to his chest — it only got worse.
"Give it here," Jisung said, and before Minho could refuse, he took the problematic cup into his own hands. "I'll help."
He walked with it to the nearest table by the window, carefully removed the lid, dabbed the edge with a napkin from the dispenser. His fingers, usually trembling, were now surprisingly calm. Yes, now. It was only when the problem was inside him that he lost control.
Minho stood nearby and watched silently. Jisung felt his gaze on his hands: the overgrown nails, the frayed shirt cuff, the old scratch on his wrist.
"Here," Jisung closed the cup with the lid, checked that it wasn't leaking. "Here you go."
"Thank you," Minho took the coffee. He paused. "Do you drink coffee, Han?"
"No," Jisung shook his head. "Weak heart."
His heart wasn't weak. He was just taught in childhood that you shouldn't spend money on "adult pleasures." But Minho didn't need to know that.
"Tea, then?" Minho asked as if testing a hypothesis.
"Tea — yes. Black, no sugar."
"I'll remember that," Minho threw out and walked down the corridor, leaving Jisung alone by the window.
Jisung remained standing, feeling that his hands still smelled of cinnamon. "I'll remember that," he repeated to himself. What did "I'll remember that" mean? Why would a professor need to remember what tea a student drinks?
He didn't know the answer, but that day he bought a cup of black tea from the vending machine. And he drank it, looking out the window at the wet November courtyard, feeling the warmth spread through his chest, filling the oppressive emptiness.
But something was wrong.