Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The corridor was quiet when Joon-ho and Dong-wook approached, their footsteps softened by the polished floor. Nurses passed in quiet pairs, clipboards tucked under their arms, the antiseptic tang of disinfectant hanging faintly in the air. A patient in a wheelchair rolled slowly past, pushed by a relative, their voices hushed. For all its new glass and polished fixtures, the East Wing carried the same fragile hush that lingered over every hospital: the air heavy with waiting, recovery, and silence.

But silence shattered the moment Kang Min-seok spotted him.

Joon-ho had seen his type often enough — shoulders stiffening, face darkening like a storm front, eyes narrowing as recognition burned through him. For Min-seok, the sight was unbearable.

Barely a month ago, at the national training camp, his arrogance had cracked in front of everyone. Ji-hye's strained muscles had been stabilized not by his hands but by Joon-ho's. Another player had collapsed, and while Min-seok had hesitated, slacking under the pressure, Joon-ho had stepped in and saved the moment. Coach Min's fury had been merciless, dismissing Min-seok on the spot. Humiliated, disgraced, he had vanished from the team. Now, seeing the man responsible for his downfall here, on his own ground? It was more than he could stomach.

His voice tore through the corridor."What is he doing here?" Min-seok barked, loud enough that doors rattled faintly in their frames. "This is a hospital! Outsiders are not welcome — especially not unauthorized ones!"

The sudden volume made a nurse startle, nearly dropping her chart. Soo-jin, who had been trying to reason with him only moments before, froze. Dong-wook's head turned sharply, but before he could speak, Joon-ho moved.

Not toward Min-seok. Not in defense. He simply turned his calm gaze to Dong-wook, as if the outburst hadn't even reached him."Will Director Kim be coming down?"

Dong-wook nodded quickly, lowering his voice in a gesture of restraint. "Yes, hyung. He wanted to meet you first before finalizing next steps."

The simple exchange — measured, quiet, dismissing Min-seok without a glance — lit the physio's temper like dry kindling.

"Don't you ignore me!" Min-seok snapped, stepping closer, finger raised. His voice rose with every syllable. "You don't belong here. This is trespassing! You accessed patient records without clearance — that's a violation of law!"

"Mr. Kang—" Soo-jin tried to calm him, hand lightly outstretched, but he shook her off.

"You think you can waltz in here and play healer?" His voice cracked with rage. "This is not your stage!"

Dong-wook moved between them, firm but steady. "Lower your voice, Min-seok. You're disturbing patients."

But it was too late. Doors along the corridor cracked open. A frail old man leaned out, frowning. Two women whispered near another doorway, glancing nervously toward the commotion. A mother with a child at her side stood hesitantly in the hall, the boy tugging at her sleeve.

The scene was devolving into spectacle. Nurses hurried forward, soft voices pleading for quiet, but Min-seok's anger only grew sharper at the sight of the audience.

And then the elevator chimed.

Heads turned as the polished doors slid open. Director Kim Tae-hwan stepped out, flanked by two senior doctors in white coats. His expression carried the weight of authority, the kind that quieted a room even before he spoke. Staff straightened, patients eased back into their rooms, the tide of noise retreating under his presence.

His gaze cut to Min-seok first, cold and sharp."Tone down your voice," Director Kim said flatly. "You're disturbing patients."

For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Nurses bowed slightly, grateful. But Min-seok, cornered and humiliated, refused to yield.

"Director," he snapped, gesturing toward Joon-ho with a shaking hand, "this man is unauthorized. He already accessed patient records. This is a violation of every hospital policy—"

The words had barely left his mouth before one of the senior doctors stepped forward, gripping his arm. "Enough, Min-seok," the older man said, his tone low but firm. "You're drawing more attention to yourself than anyone else." He began steering him to the side, ignoring Min-seok's spluttered protests.

Director Kim let the scene play out for a moment, then turned. His gaze settled on Joon-ho.

Joon-ho stood calm, hands folded behind his back, his presence steady despite the charged air. He inclined his head in a subtle bow.

Director Kim studied him, silence stretching long enough that the nurses fidgeted. Finally, his voice cut through the quiet."You are the therapist I keep hearing about? The one involved with the volleyball team?"

"Yes."

"And you believe you can help Mr. Choi?"

"I need to see his condition directly," Joon-ho said evenly. His tone held no arrogance, only simple fact. "But based on his record and his age, recovery is possible. It must be handled with care, though — with precision. Textbook routine will not be enough."

A ripple of murmurs spread among the doctors. Some skeptical, some curious. Min-seok struggled against the senior doctor's grip, words muffled as he tried to argue again.

Director Kim's gaze didn't waver. He measured Joon-ho in silence, as though weighing not only his words but the steadiness behind them. At last, he gave a single nod.

"I agree with your assessment," he said. "You may proceed." His tone hardened. "But understand this: Jeju Hospital is under scrutiny already. If you fail, the responsibility will not fall on us. It will fall on you. Your name will take the heat, not ours."

"I understand," Joon-ho replied, bowing slightly. His voice remained calm, without hesitation.

The corridor seemed to exhale then, nurses exchanging glances, staff whispering quietly at the unexpected outcome. Min-seok was pulled further back, seething, his eyes locked on Joon-ho with naked hostility.

But Joon-ho did not return the look. He remained composed, his calm presence a stark contrast to the anger simmering across from him.

And beneath the stillness of the hospital air, everyone present felt it — this was only the beginning. Something larger than therapy was about to unfold.

The polished plaque on the door read 513, the numbers gleaming faintly under the corridor light. Director Kim pushed it open with a measured hand, the weight of the entire entourage following close behind.

Inside, the room was bright. Morning sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, softening the sharp whiteness of the walls. Machines stood idle at the bedside, a quiet hum of monitoring equipment the only constant noise.

Mr. Choi was propped up against a stack of pillows, glasses perched low on his nose, his silver hair neatly combed. Despite the hospital gown, he looked more like a dignified professor than a patient. At his side sat a young woman — his granddaughter — no older than her mid-twenties, her dark hair tied back neatly. She glanced up as the door opened, rising to bow.

"Director Kim," Mr. Choi greeted, voice warm though slightly raspy. "I didn't expect such an escort. You make me feel like a VIP."

"You are our guest, Mr. Choi," Director Kim replied, his formality softened by a faint smile. He stepped forward to exchange pleasantries, the senior doctors flanking him with polite nods.

Min-seok hung back at the door, arms crossed, his expression sour. Soo-jin slipped in beside Dong-wook, both casting wary glances toward him before shifting their focus to the patient.

When the pleasantries had eased, Director Kim gestured slightly toward Joon-ho. "This is Kang Joon-ho. He is a therapy specialist with particular expertise in recovery and rehabilitation. I've asked him to take a look at your condition."

Mr. Choi's gaze drifted toward Joon-ho, curious but kind. Then he chuckled, shaking his head faintly. "So much trouble over me. At my age, it's only natural my legs fail now and then. You shouldn't worry so much."

His granddaughter pressed her lips into a smile, bowing politely toward Joon-ho. Her eyes lingered on him longer than courtesy required, searching as though she were trying to place him.

Joon-ho stepped forward, his presence steady. He inclined his head respectfully. "With your permission, I'd like to examine your legs. It won't be painful. And if it's uncomfortable at any moment, tell me and I'll stop."

"Of course, of course." Mr. Choi gestured easily. "I'm already in your care. Do as you must."

Joon-ho pulled a chair closer and lowered himself beside the bed. His tone shifted, light and conversational, as he took Mr. Choi's ankle gently in his hand. "You're from Jeju originally, aren't you? I noticed your accent."

Mr. Choi's brows lifted. "Born and raised. My family's orchard is only a little ways from here. I used to climb trees as a boy, picking oranges before school. These legs carried me everywhere once."

"Then they can carry you again," Joon-ho said with quiet conviction. His fingers moved carefully, pressing along a pressure point near the knee, testing muscle response. "The sea air here… it has a different feel from the mainland. Stronger, saltier. Do you still visit the shore often?"

The old man chuckled, relaxing against the pillows. "Every morning, before this nonsense. Walked the coast with my granddaughter. She complains I walk too slow, but she still follows me."

Laughter slipped from both of them, easy and warm. Each shift of conversation seemed to loosen the tension in Mr. Choi's body, his muscles unclenching, his face open.

At the door, Min-seok's scornful whisper carried just enough to reach the others. "Unprofessional… chatting as though this were a café. What kind of therapist is this?"

The senior doctors exchanged looks. They had doubted this young man themselves, yet their trained eyes couldn't deny what they were seeing: Mr. Choi, who had always stiffened under their examinations, now showed no sign of restraint. No flicker of pain crossed his face, no tightening of his jaw. He breathed evenly, even chuckling as Joon-ho pressed another point on his calf.

A nurse leaned toward her colleague, voice low but firm. "When we checked him earlier, you saw it — he kept it in, but his face showed the pain. Now? Look at him. Not even a wince."

Her colleague nodded, eyes fixed on Joon-ho's hands. "He doesn't even notice the pressure. It's like he's forgotten he's being examined."

Mr. Choi shifted, sighing as Joon-ho eased the muscles near his shin. "That feels… oddly good. Usually when they press there, it shoots pain all the way up my thigh."

Joon-ho nodded lightly, his fingers precise. "Pain is the body's way of holding its breath. Sometimes all it takes is reminding it how to exhale."

The granddaughter tilted her head, still studying him. There was familiarity in her eyes now, a spark of recognition tugging at memory. She chewed lightly at her lip, as if trying to pull a name from the back of her mind.

Min-seok muttered again, louder this time, frustration sharpening his tone. "This is theater. Making small talk, pretending at care — anyone can do that. It's not treatment. It's a farce."

One of the senior doctors turned toward him with open disapproval. "Enough. If you cannot contribute constructively, step outside."

Min-seok bristled but said nothing further, though his glare remained locked on the bed.

Inside, Joon-ho finished his careful palpation and gently set Mr. Choi's leg back against the mattress. The old man exhaled in relief, shoulders loosening as though a weight had lifted.

"You have a steady touch, young man," Mr. Choi said warmly. "For the first time in a week, I don't feel as if my legs are betraying me."

Joon-ho bowed his head slightly. "This is only the first step. Recovery is possible, but it must be guided carefully. We'll proceed one day at a time."

The granddaughter's eyes widened suddenly. Her lips parted. "Wait… I know you."

The room stilled, attention shifting to her.

She blinked, then leaned forward, pointing delicately. "You're the therapist who was with Ji-hye, aren't you? From the national volleyball team? I saw photos online — on social media. You helped her recover before the international match. Everyone said she couldn't have played without you."

A murmur rippled through the gathered staff. Recognition spread like a wave.

"So that was him…" one of the doctors whispered."I read about that match. Ji-hye was flawless.""They said her recovery was miraculous."

At the door, Min-seok stiffened, his face twisting with annoyance, as though the walls themselves were pressing in. His jaw worked, but no words came. The granddaughter's simple statement had cut through whatever defense he might have mounted.

Joon-ho bowed slightly toward her, voice calm. "I only did my job."

But Min-seok's glare sharpened, eyes burning with resentment. His arms crossed tighter, fingers digging into his sleeves.

The tension in the room thickened, invisible but palpable. What should have been a simple assessment now felt like the prelude to a deeper clash — professionalism against ego, calm assurance against festering bitterness.

And in that quiet after the granddaughter's words, everyone present knew: this was not the end. It was only the beginning.