A Season for Lies

"Aish, jinjja! I'm late!" The curse escaped as a silent breath from Bima Aditya Putra’s lips as his half-open eyes caught the digital figures on his alarm clock: 08:47. His heart leaped into his throat. His appointment with Professor Min was at nine. Sharp. Not a minute less, not a minute more. His thesis advisor was famously intolerant of tardiness. With a panicked motion, he threw back his covers. His tiny studio apartment in Seoul's Sinchon district looked as if it had been hit by a tornado—books were scattered everywhere, last night's empty ramyeon bowl still sat on his desk, and his heavy jacket was slumped in a heap on the floor. He had been too engrossed in texting with Saskia, his sister, last night, losing all track of time. His phone on the nightstand blinked, indicating a new message. From "Saski Noona ♥" *. "Bim, good luck with Prof. Min today! Impress him! I’m going to war today too, wish me luck! Love you!" A wave of guilt washed over Bima. He hadn't even managed to pick up her video call last night, too busy arranging his presentation materials. Grabbing a towel, he typed a lightning-fast reply: "You got it! Good luck with your war too, Noona! You've got this! Sorry I fell asleep last night, I'll call you later!" Five minutes later, he was already running out of his apartment door. Breakfast was clearly not on the menu. The tantalizing aroma of kimchi stew from the restaurant downstairs, usually a morning temptation, was now ignored. His mind was focused on a single objective: reach the faculty building in less than fifteen minutes. Impossible on foot. He decided to take a shortcut, cutting through the narrow alleys filled with colorful murals. His breath began to quicken, the crisp spring air burning his lungs. He kept running, his shoulder bumping into other pedestrians several times as he bowed his body, muttering a hasty “joesonghamnida” *. He finally reached the main road. Across the street, the grand faculty building was already in sight. The pedestrian light was red, accompanied by a digital countdown: 10… 9… 8… "Come on… come on…" Bima mumbled, his feet impatient to leap from the curb. When the number showed ‘3’, he made a split-second decision. He could make it. He had to make it. Ignoring the rules, he started to run across the street. From his left, a delivery motorcycle sped forward, trying to catch the last dregs of the green light. Brown cardboard boxes were stacked high on the back, slightly obscuring the driver's view. The driver, too, was in a hurry, chasing a delivery target. Two people, both in a rush. Two worlds about to collide in a cruel twist of fate. Bima heard the scooter's harsh engine noise a fraction of a second too late. He turned his head. His eyes didn't see the driver's face, only the wall of brown boxes that seemed to grow into a giant wall ready to swallow him whole. He vaguely heard shocked screams from the people around him. Then, a hard impact against his side. A sharp, blinding pain. His world spun. The cold asphalt scraped against his cheek, and the scent of the Americano that had spilled from his hand was the last thing his senses registered. Before the darkness pulled him under completely, one face flashed through his mind. His noona's smiling face. *** The Emergency Room at Asan Medical Center was a perpetually churning crater, an ecosystem of chaos controlled by protocol and adrenaline. The air inside was a nauseating cocktail: the sharp sting of antiseptic, the faint, metallic scent of blood, and underneath it all, the formless, acidic aroma of fear. The symphony of life-saving machines—the rhythmic beat of the EKG monitor, the mechanical hiss of the ventilator, and the shrill alarms that signaled crisis—was the unending background music. However, as the automatic trauma room doors burst open and the gurney carrying Bima was pushed in, that hellish orchestra seemed to find its soloist. The level of chaos escalated, finding a new, tragic focal point. "Male, twenties, hit-and-run victim! GCS of seven, blood pressure is crashing, ninety over fifty! Oxygen saturation at eighty-five and dropping!" a male nurse shouted, his voice hoarse and strained, his blue scrubs already stained with blood that wasn't his. The medical team—a flock of weary-winged angels—immediately swarmed him. They moved as a single organism, a desperate dance they had rehearsed a thousand times. Trauma shears made a sickening c***k as they tore through Bima's thick jacket and t-shirt, revealing a pale chest decorated with purplish-blue bruises. Gloved hands slapped electrodes onto his cold skin, and on the monitor overhead, the jagged green line indicating his heartbeat appeared weak and erratic. "No carotid pulse! He's in V-fib!" yelled the resident closest to Bima's head. Without waiting for a command, another nurse had already prepared the defibrillator. "Two hundred joules! Clear!" Bima's body lifted slightly from the gurney as the electric shock slammed into his chest. A thin wisp of smoke curled from his skin. All eyes were on the monitor. The chaotic line went flat for a moment—a moment of total silence that made everyone's blood run cold—before it began to beat again in a weak sinus rhythm. They had pulled him back from the brink, at least for now. "We got a pulse!" someone exclaimed, followed by a collective sigh of relief. But the team leader, a middle-aged doctor named Dr. Choi, did not share in the small victory. His eyes were fixed on Bima's head. "Anisocoric pupils, the right is blown and non-responsive to light. There's otorrhea, active bleeding from the right ear. His heart may be back, but his brain is dying! This is a massive head trauma!" his voice boomed, cutting through the momentary euphoria. "Damn it! Get Dr. Lee from neurosurgery, palli! * Tell him it's a code blue for the brain! We only have minutes!" A few minutes that felt like an eternity later, amidst the bustle of preparing for intubation and inserting a central line, the automatic trauma room doors slid open again. This time, there was no rush. A tall man with a calm, almost arrogant posture entered the room. His presence seemed to radiate an invisible force field, a center of tranquility so powerful that the storm around him seemed to quiet. The panicked nurses and residents unconsciously straightened their backs. Whispers rippled among them, a mixture of awe and fear. "Lee Seonsaengnim is here." * The name tag pinned neatly to his immaculate white coat read: Dr. Lee Seo-jin, Neurosurgery Specialist. His face looked as though it were sculpted from marble by a master—a sharp jawline, a straight nose, and lips that seemed as if they never smiled. But his most captivating and terrifying features were his eyes. They held the analytical sharpness of a scientist and the hidden empathy of a philosopher. He was a man accustomed to staring directly into the human brain, the very seat of thought, dreams, and the soul. Without a word, he took command. His movements were efficient, each step purposeful. He took a penlight from a nurse's hand, prying open Bima's eyelids one by one with a touch that was surprisingly gentle. He then stared intently at the monitor on the wall displaying the emergency CT scan results, his eyes sweeping across the black-and-white images as if he were reading an ancient manuscript. In his mind's eye, a horrific landscape took shape. He saw the intricate map of the young man's brain, a stunning galaxy of neurons and synapses. And upon that map, a dark, inky blot was blooming like a fatal flower—a massive subdural hematoma. The blood was mercilessly compressing the temporal lobe, destroying soft brain tissue, extinguishing memories and functions one by one. This was no longer just an injury; it was a war inside a skull, and time was running out. "Massive cerebral edema," he murmured, his voice low and calm, but to the trained ear, that tone carried the highest urgency. "His intracranial pressure must be through the roof." He shifted his gaze from the screen to the pale face on the gurney. His patient was so young. Probably just celebrated his twentieth birthday. A distinctive Southeast Asian face, a face that should be smiling in holiday photos or dozing in a library. Not here. Not like this. Seo-jin's heart, usually locked tight behind a fortress of professionalism, felt a slight tremor. Years as a neurosurgeon had taught him to see patients as biological puzzles to be solved. But every now and then, humanity broke through without permission. He saw not just a patient, but a life—a novel in danger of ending in its very first chapters. "Prep OR Three. We're doing an emergency craniotomy to relieve the pressure," he ordered the team, his voice becoming a sharp, steel instrument once more. He then turned to the senior nurse standing by his side with a notepad. "Have you identified him?" "Yes, Seonsaengnim. His name is Bima Aditya Putra, a student from Indonesia. This is his phone; we found an emergency contact inside." Dr. Lee Seo-jin held out his hand. He accepted the phone. The device felt cold in his hand, a hand accustomed to the warmth of sterilized surgical instruments. Its surface was cracked like a spiderweb, a painful metaphor for its owner's skull. Yet, the screen was still lit. The background was a photograph so full of life it felt like an insult to the death lingering in the room. The photo was a portrait of pure happiness. His patient, Bima, was laughing, his eyes crinkled, tightly hugging a young woman who was also smiling brightly. The woman’s smile—a supernova of joy that revealed a dimple—seemed capable of illuminating the entire gloomy room. The background appeared to be an airport departure terminal. An optimistic farewell photo, a promise to meet again. Seo-jin swallowed hard. He saw the emergency contact name saved at the very top of the call list. It wasn't a formal name. Not "Mother" or "Father." Just three words and a symbol, so personal and intimate: "Saski Noona ♥". That small red heart. A simple digital icon that represented an infinite world: late-night video calls, loving scoldings, inside jokes, and an unbreakable bond. A world he was now tasked to shatter. "Contact his guardian," Dr. Lee Seo-jin said, and this time his voice was slightly hoarse, losing its steely edge for a moment. He looked at the faces of the nurse and the administrator nearby. "Whoever this 'Saski Noona' is… her world is about to end. Be gentle, but be clear. There is no time for false hope. Ask them to come as soon as possible." He handed back the phone as if it burned his hand. He turned, and in an instant, his transformation was complete. The man who had just felt a sliver of empathy was gone. All that remained was Dr. Lee, the surgeon. His mind was already in the operating room, envisioning every blood vessel, every tissue, every millimeter of bone he would have to drill. His strides were fast and steady, leaving the chaos behind him to be resolved on his operating table. Behind him, an administrator held the phone. She looked at the name "Saski Noona ♥" with a hesitant, sympathetic gaze. She took a deep breath, preparing herself to deliver the worst possible news, and then pressed the international number displayed beneath it. *** Notes: Aish, jinjja! (아씨, 진짜!): An expression of frustration or annoyance in Korean. Akin to "Damn it!" or "Seriously?!" in this context. Noona (누나): The term a Korean male uses to address his older biological sister, or a close older female friend/acquaintance. It signifies familiarity and respect. Joesonghamnida (죄송합니다): The formal way to say "I am sorry" in Korean. It is used when speaking to strangers, elders, or in any situation that requires a high degree of politeness. Palli (빨리): Means "fast" or "quickly". It is often repeated (palli-palli) and is famously characteristic of South Korea's fast-paced culture, which emphasizes speed and efficiency. Seonsaengnim (선생님): Literally means "teacher". It is a common and very respectful term of address used for doctors, professors, and other esteemed individuals respected for their position or expertise.