As an editor he have some of responsibility here on what to do. He'll write down a note for the readers since everyone already knew about Haneul Jeo's situation. Maybe Nagai's some of Nagai's suggestions were right. Should he manipulate or just let it pass? Midori sighed and with a heavy heart just resigned to whatever destiny gives it to him. The hospital cradles different types of people, Haneul Jeo and Midori isn't the only ones who are alive here. Life around these personality moves in a jagged, rough, smooth paces. There the young ones who haven't seen the world yet and the ones who are on the beds recovering, others work in late night shifts other sjust work on a job whatever day or time it is and some who are in stale, some them were others who died. And the other ones who watched them on the sidelines.
"Stop staring at kids, you're giving them creepy vibes."
"Shut up. I just looked that way..." the person muttered, looking away from the babies in the infirmary sleeping in their own incubators. Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she walked away from the hospital, with the one who commented on her watching following closely behind her, leaving space between them. Her hair, purple and pink, was blown against the wind of the cold winter air, but the clips on her hair didn't budge from their place; they remained there, clipped.
"You still love to donate money to the hospital, huh, even though you're already a shareholder," the woman beside her said, pulling a cigar out of her pocket. However, it was quickly extinguished by the fingertips of the other person she was talking to and was thrown into the nearest trash bin. She was a smoker too, but she always kept it hidden from the public and only smoked when she was alone.
"Don't smoke, or else you'll be the one I'm donating to next time."
"Hah."
"Think about the people recovering here. You're influencing them to adopt unhealthy habits of yours."
"Stop acting like you don't smoke too."
"At least when people surround me who are still recovering." She tucked her hands into her pockets as they got into her van. The driver swiftly maneuvered the wheel toward their next destination. No words needed to be spoken.
"Your driver really knows where to go, huh." The driver knew her schedule, and for a busy woman like her, it was necessary to know where they were going. She just hummed in reply; it was an obvious yes—what else could it be? A no?
The van suddenly came to a halt, which made everyone jolt in their seats.
"What is it?"
"I think I hit someone." She rushed to open the van's door and walked out to see the victim, with slight blood dripping down onto the road. The victim was still sitting, his palms keeping him from falling to the ground. The driver immediately got down from the van as she moved to check on him. His blood pooled on his white long-sleeved shirt.
He wasn't stabbed, but he was hit by the car. The blood on his shirt begged to differ. She slightly frowned.
"Call the hospital," she instructed the driver. Although they were near the hospital, the risk of making the injury worse made it better to call for help. She checked his arms, pulling up the sleeves; her eyes saw gashes and bruises. Was he hit by their van? She pulled out two extra handkerchiefs from her pockets. Her eyes traveled to his feet; his shoes were worn out but kept newly polished, slightly staining the hems of his pants. Was he applying for a job?
"Hey, sir, can you still hear me?"
He looked up at her. Dark irises met her auburn ones. Both had bags underneath their eyes, indicating fatigue. Asking if the man in front of her was okay would be a comedic scenario after all; he was bleeding.