The surgical residents' lounge was larger than the orthopedic one, a detail Tae-Hee noted absentmindedly as he stepped out, before noticing something far more important: his new colleagues had apparently decided to skip the silent coexistence phase and go straight to the noisy one.
— So, let's recap, Léo was saying, perched on the edge of a table with the energy of a man solving a military logistics problem. We can't say his name out loud anymore because he appears out of nowhere like a-
— Léo, Deborah interrupted.
— I'm just saying what we're all thinking.
— What we're all thinking stays inside our heads.
— Either in our heads or in code, a third voice added.
It was Anaïs Shirley, a former pediatrics resident, with short hair and dark eyes that always seemed one step ahead of the conversation. She had spent the entire morning staff meeting observing in silence, which apparently hadn't stopped her from forming very strong opinions.
— In code, repeated Léo, as though the idea had just taken shape in his mind and he immediately loved it. Exactly. We call him something else.
— What do we call him? Deborah asked.
A collective silence of reflection followed.
— The Jackal, said Anaïs.
Everyone looked at her.
— The Jackal, she repeated with the calm confidence of someone who never felt the need to justify her metaphors. He prowls around, makes no sound, and always appears at the worst possible moment.
Léo pointed a finger at her.
— That's perfect. The Jackal.
— So we're organizing a party to celebrate our forced transfer into the Jackal's service, Deborah summarized. That's the plan?
— It's not a party to celebrate the transfer, Léo corrected with questionable dignity. It's a party to celebrate surviving the first day.
— Same thing.
— Philosophically, no.
Dave, sitting on the couch at the back with a cup of coffee, watched his new colleagues with the fond expression of someone recognizing a species he'd already encountered elsewhere. He chuckled softly into his cup.
— You're organizing a party?
The voice landed in the room like a heavy object hitting tile.
The silence was immediate, absolute, and of particularly poor quality.
Ashton stood in the doorway. No one had heard him approach, no one had seen him stop, and the worst part was that no one could have said how long he'd been standing there. His expression revealed nothing.
That was precisely the problem.
Anaïs's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
Léo had visibly stopped breathing.
Deborah was staring at a fixed point on the wall with the concentration of a woman praying retroactive invisibility might somehow be possible.
Dave, who seemed to derive a deep inner joy from the situation and was only partially successful at hiding it, lifted his cup to his lips.
He had an overwhelming urge to smile.
Ashton let the silence linger for exactly as long as necessary to make everyone sufficiently uncomfortable before saying:
— Book a table for eleven tonight. I know a place.
Then he walked back into the hallway without another word.
The room remained silent for a full three seconds.
— Is he... coming with us? Léo whispered.
— Apparently, Dave said.
— Was that an invitation or an order?
— I'm not sure the distinction matters much to him.
Anaïs slowly slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor.
— We called him the Jackal right in front of him.
— We don't know if he heard it, Deborah said without conviction.
— He hears everything, Dave replied. We established that this morning.
A heavy silence followed.
— Fine, Léo said, straightening up with heroic resignation. Tonight we're having dinner with the Jackal. Does anyone know if he eats meat or survives exclusively on residents' emotional distress?
★★★
Elsewhere in the hospital, Tae-Hee knew absolutely nothing about any of this.
He had retrieved his box from the orthopedic residents' lounge—a few personal belongings, an annotated textbook, and a chipped mug he'd forgotten to bring home three weeks earlier—and was about to leave when the door opened from the other side.
The blonde woman. Amber eyes. Chief— no, wait.
She walked in without looking at him and headed straight for her locker. Tae-Hee remained standing in the doorway for a second, box tucked under his arm.
He wouldn't be seeing her anymore now. New department, new floor, new everything.
And he still didn't know her name—the real one, not "Chief," which she'd given him the week before and which he'd carefully stored in his memory without ever getting the chance to use.
— Excuse me.
She turned around.
— What's your name? I mean... the name people actually use.
She looked at him for a moment with that long, unreadable gaze she seemed to reserve for questions that surprised her without showing it.
— Delta, she said.
He nodded.
Delta.
He filed it away in the same place as the other one.
— I'm glad I got to work in the same department as you, he said, bowing slightly. Thank you for everything.
She didn't answer.
He left.
She sat down on the bench after the door closed behind him and stared at the wall across from her.
— That kid's going places, she murmured.
It wasn't a question.
★★★
The elevator was empty when Tae-Hee stepped inside, box under his arm. He pressed the button for the fourth floor, and the doors began to close.
A hand stopped them. Jacob entered. He was carrying a pillow.
Just a pillow.
Tae-Hee looked at the object. Then at Jacob. Then back at the object.
The pillow was wrinkled and slightly flattened, with the appearance of a long-time companion that had rendered countless services in questionable places. A residents' lounge pillow, the kind you eventually start considering your own simply because you've used it so often.
So this was the only thing Jacob had come back for.
Tae-Hee burst out laughing.
He couldn't help it. It came out on its own, without warning, and once it started, it didn't really stop. He wiped at the corner of his eyes.
Jacob looked down at him, which, considering the difference in height, was the only way he could look at anyone.
— What's so funny?
— No, it's just... Tae-Hee said, catching his breath. You're both eccentric and hilarious. I can't even bring myself to be annoyed at you.
Jacob didn't answer immediately.
The elevator continued its ascent in the tired hum of machinery.
Then:
— I'm sorry.
Tae-Hee looked up at him, surprised.
— For the other day. When you arrived in orthopedics.
A pause.
— Let's just say I was feeling mischievous.
Tae-Hee nodded. The apology was more than enough. He didn't need details. Didn't need the full explanation.
Didn't need it to be anything more than what it was.
Jacob seemed to understand something in his silence and turned his eyes back toward the elevator doors.
What Jacob didn't say—and had no intention of saying—was that seeing Tae-Hee that morning, sweaty and in a state of maximum alert at seven forty-seven, had awakened an impulse rare enough to be worth noting: the urge to tease someone.
It happened almost never.
The only motivations that regularly drove Jacob Lawson's existence were sleeping, eating roughly ten percent of the time, and practicing medicine with a level of competence he saw no reason to advertise.
Wanting to tease a sweaty stranger perched on a fence was a statistical anomaly.
He didn't analyze it any further. The doors opened on the fourth floor.
They walked down the hallway at the same pace—a fact neither of them commented on—until they reached the surgical residents' lounge.
Jacob let Tae-Hee reach the handle first. The door flew open violently from the inside.
Léo's face appeared in the doorway, glistening with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full power, eyes slightly bulging, wearing the expression of a man who had just realized the magnitude of a problem and was desperately searching for witnesses.
— Guys, we have a huge problem.
Tae-Hee frowned.
In his mind, the word problem activated a very specific and personal catalogue: a negative university report, accumulating delays, poorly completed files, and the painfully vivid memory of his reply from this morning-
If my soul was here on time, does that mean I was punctual?
What on earth had possessed him to say something like that to that man, on the very first day, in front of everyone-
He was mentally collapsed on the floor, drowning in self-reproach, when Jacob asked evenly:
— What happened?
Léo took a breath.
— We have a date at a fast-food restaurant tonight with the Jackal.
Silence.
Tae-Hee emerged from his spiral of despair.
— The... Jackal?
— Doctor Ashton, Jacob translated without changing expression.
— He heard that we were organizing a party, Léo said in the voice of a man recounting an accident he'd barely survived. He told us to make a reservation for eleven. Then he left.
Tae-Hee looked at Léo.
Then Jacob.
Then Léo again.
— So... he's having dinner with us.
— Yes.
— Of his own free will.
— Yes.
— Doctor Ashton.
— Tae-Hee.
— Yes?
— You're repeating exactly what we just said.
— I know. I'm trying to believe it.
Jacob walked into the lounge, placed his pillow on the couch at the back with the care of a man arranging his priorities, and lay down on it with his eyes closed.
— Wake me up an hour before we leave, he said.