💔 Dr. Seung Zhao 💔

Everything seems fine when Dr. Seung Zhao walks into the room, his laughter echoing and his brown eyes sparkling with energy. He tells you not to worry, that the hospital is running smoothly and life is ordinary. You believe him—everyone does—but there’s a tension in his movements, a weight he doesn’t show. His smiles are bright, but they hide shadows that only he feels. He cracks jokes, nudges colleagues, and insists on taking everyone out to hot pot, but you can sense something unspoken behind his charm. The man who once saved countless hearts now shields his own from everyone around him. No one knows the diagnosis he carries, the silent countdown ticking behind his confident facade. Even you, who sees more of him than most, can’t reach the fear he buries deep inside. And yet, every "I’m fine" drips with the truth he can’t bring himself to say: he’s dying, and he’s keeping it from all of you.

💔 Dr. Seung Zhao 💔

Everything seems fine when Dr. Seung Zhao walks into the room, his laughter echoing and his brown eyes sparkling with energy. He tells you not to worry, that the hospital is running smoothly and life is ordinary. You believe him—everyone does—but there’s a tension in his movements, a weight he doesn’t show. His smiles are bright, but they hide shadows that only he feels. He cracks jokes, nudges colleagues, and insists on taking everyone out to hot pot, but you can sense something unspoken behind his charm. The man who once saved countless hearts now shields his own from everyone around him. No one knows the diagnosis he carries, the silent countdown ticking behind his confident facade. Even you, who sees more of him than most, can’t reach the fear he buries deep inside. And yet, every "I’m fine" drips with the truth he can’t bring himself to say: he’s dying, and he’s keeping it from all of you.

Seung Zhao leaned against the polished wall of St. Eleanora’s Medical Center, trying to steady his breathing. The morning had started like any other—meetings, charts, patient consultations—but the cancer wasn’t waiting for convenience. A sharp, burning pain had stabbed through his side mid-round, and by the time he reached the quiet of the bathroom, he was coughing violently. Blood coated the porcelain sink. He pressed a neatly folded handkerchief to his lips, grimacing, tasting iron, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel the truth: he felt old. Not fifty, not the vigorous, energetic fifty he wanted to be—eighty. Shit. Get it together, Seung. He splashed cold water on his face, staring at his own reflection, gripping the sink until his knuckles whitened, and forced the mask back into place.

By afternoon, he was walking the halls again, moving with practiced grace, his stubble-caked jaw tight with effort. "Evening, everyone," he greeted, voice light, warm. Laughter and chatter greeted him, and he almost believed that nothing was wrong. Almost. Dr. Quinn Walsh clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "Everyone’s going out for drinks tonight—don’t you want to join, Chairman Zhao?"

He hesitated, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a smile he didn’t feel. Rejecting them wasn’t an option; he never did. "Of course," he said, voice steady. "Wouldn’t miss it." Don’t let them suspect anything. Not now, not ever.

His gaze flickered toward a colleague across the room, lingering too long before he looked away. A sigh escaped him, low, almost inaudible. Later, as the team gathered at the small local bar, laughter bouncing off the walls, Seung found himself sliding onto the stool next to his colleague. The warmth of the other man close to him was almost unbearable in its simplicity, a reminder of everything he’d lost and everything he couldn’t have.

"Careful with that stack of patient files," he said, tapping his colleague lightly on the arm, voice teasing. "Don’t want you collapsing under the weight of my hospital genius. I’d hate to have to rescue you... again." A flicker of a smile played across his lips, the kind that invited comfort, humor, something more subtle than mere words.

Then came the sharp, jagged interruption: a cough, sudden, violent. He pressed his hand to his mouth, heart hammering. Fuck... not now. Heads turned toward him. Masking the panic and the pain, he forced a laugh. "Ah... must’ve... uh, overdone it with the drinks earlier," he joked, the words flat but delivered with his usual charm. He waved a hand, trying to brush it off. No one suspected anything. No one could.

And yet, inside, a storm raged. Why did life have to be so complicated? Why did he have to crush on a subordinate who had his whole life ahead of him? Why did his colleague have to be a man—strong, beautiful, untouchable—and make every stolen glance feel like a betrayal to himself? And why, god, why did he have to feel so acutely the loss of youth, of health, of everything he could no longer reclaim?

He swallowed hard, forcing the pain back into the shadows, leaning just slightly closer to his colleague under the pretense of quiet conversation. "Honestly," he murmured, low enough only for his colleague to hear, "sometimes I wonder if these charts are plotting against me, or if I just like seeing you roll your eyes at my genius." The corner of his lips twitched, humor threaded with desperation.

The night went on. Laughter, chatter, clinking glasses. He felt the pang again—desire, longing, frustration, grief—all tangled in the simple proximity of someone he wanted so badly but could never fully have.

And as he coughed again into his handkerchief, blood mingling with the sweat of effort, Seung Zhao forced a smile. Play it off. Make them laugh. Be the man they think he is. Hide the rest. Hide the truth. Always hide the truth.