Zion's Garden - Chapter 1.2

“You know Kim Zion, right? Or maybe just Zion would sound more familiar.”

“…What are you talking about, sir?”

“You don’t know Zion?”

“If we’re talking about the person I’m thinking of, then yes, I know.”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew something outside of hospitals and patients.”

It would be impossible not to know Zion, an internationally famous entertainer. What puzzled me was why Professor Jung was mentioning someone so unrelated to the current situation. He noticed my raised eyebrows and continued cautiously.

“Zion’s not doing well.”

“…If he’s unwell, he should get treatment, shouldn’t he?”

“It’s not as simple as that. At his level of fame, even if he were mentally ill, he can’t just walk into a hospital. It’s tragic in its own way.”

“And?”

Growing impatient with Professor Jung’s roundabout way of speaking, I pushed my hair back in frustration. A foreboding chill ran down my spine.

“Zion needs a personal physician. You don’t even need to treat him; you just need to keep him alive for three months.”

“…Is it drug addiction? Alcohol?”

“Both. It’s primarily bipolar disorder—manic depression. Severe insomnia. He even attempted suicide last month. Anyone else would have been hospitalized immediately.”

Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the well-heated room. I unbuttoned my shirt collar, but it did little to help me breathe. I looked back at Professor Jung.

“Then why me? Why assign this job to a third-year psychiatry resident at a university hospital? Shouldn’t someone more specialized handle this if we’re talking about… Zion?”

Truthfully, even if Professor Jung, the top figure in the academic world, personally took on this case, it would be fitting. I tried to picture such an esteemed individual tending to a star in the throes of depression, applying sedatives, and imagined myself in the scene. I couldn’t see it.

“No matter how famous he is, Zion is still just a patient suffering from a mental illness. You, however, are skilled at maintaining a clear boundary between your pain and the patient’s. That’s the most essential quality in our field. Empathy without sympathy. I think you’re the right person for this.”

I tried to read the expression behind Professor Jung’s glasses. He was deliberately withholding something, and it gnawed at me. I recalled a patient during my internship at a drug rehab center who had once held a shard of glass to my neck.

“Is he… violent?”

“No, quite the opposite.”

“Was there a previous doctor?”

Professor Jung pulled out another cigarette.

“There was.”

He lit it, inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

“…He committed suicide, six months ago.”

Professor Jung walked over to the window and opened it, letting the cigarette smoke drift out into the cold air. A sudden craving to light one myself overwhelmed me.

[“You’ve been singing since you were ten, which makes it twenty-three years now. How does it feel, Zion? Have you ever regretted or hated living as a world star, being cheered by everyone on the streets?”]

[“Well… sometimes… just sometimes. But I’ve been doing this for so long, singing and dancing, making people happy—that’s my role, I think.”]

Zion licked his lips. During the five-minute interview, he had already done so twelve times. As he answered in that thin voice, exhaling like a child, his tongue moved ceaselessly to moisten his lips.

[“It’s been seven years since your last interview, so I’d like to address some rumors your fans have been dying to know about.”]

[“Haha, go ahead. I’m a bit nervous, though.”]

[“Have you ever dated a woman?”]

[“Of course.”]

Zion smiled bashfully and licked his lips again. The interviewer, a woman who was once the network’s top anchor, leveraged her seasoned skills to pepper him with unflinching questions in his own home.

[“So, does that mean you could marry a woman and have children someday… in other words, live as a conventional husband and father?”]

Rumors that Zion was gay or bisexual had long been accepted as fact despite his publicized relationships with various female celebrities. The anchor’s question clearly aimed to probe that assumption.

[“Ah… I really do love children. But marriage isn’t something I can decide on my own. If I get the chance someday, I hope I could fulfill the role of a father within a family.”]

[“How many plastic surgeries have you had?”]

I unconsciously crushed the beer can I was holding as I watched the video. The kind of questions they dared to ask the so-called “world star” during a prime-time broadcast were so superficial, it was maddening. At this rate, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they asked how many times a day he masturbated. In Zion’s world, the concept of “privacy” didn’t seem to exist. He licked his beautiful lips once more before offering a childlike smile.

Even though the questions that followed were shallow enough to be offensive, thankfully, they didn’t delve into the realm of his sex life. Zion answered sincerely with his soft voice. When the anchor asked him to dance, he rose shyly and performed a few moves. When prompted to sing, he hummed a sweet melody in his signature high tone. During the 40-minute interview, I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen, even if I hadn’t meant to watch it so intently.

His habit of licking those red lips, as graceful as it was, hinted at tardive dyskinesia. Despite how elegant and captivating he appeared, it was a clear sign he’d been on medication for at least two years.

I had never realized that simply locking eyes with someone could make me this uneasy. An angel with the expression of one exiled from paradise looked at me and spoke.

“You could go into shock and die from apnea.”

“If you’re worried I’ll die, you could just stand by my side and watch.”

I responded quietly to him as he lay sprawled across the oversized sofa.

“I’ll do 60 ml. It’ll be enough for what you want—losing consciousness.”

“Doctor, you’re treating me like a junkie, aren’t you?”

“Isn’t that what you are?”

He licked his lips again, smiling at me with those impossibly large eyes. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might understand the source of the rumors that followed him. His beauty seemed to transcend gender, drawing people in with a magnetic pull.
“I surrender. Just please, put me to sleep, doctor.”

Even when he begged, his voice sounded like a song. I thought that perhaps every part of his body was an instrument.

“Please… don’t call me ‘doctor.’”

“That’s an interesting request. What should I call you, then?”
Lying limp on the white leather sofa, Zion looked at me and asked. His body appeared even more emaciated up close.

It felt like I was hearing things.

“Anything but ‘doctor.’”

I muttered as I pulled a syringe from my prepared bag. My mind was already in disarray without adding him into the mix. All I wanted was to get this patient out of my sight as soon as possible.

“What’s your name, Doctor-who-doesn’t-want-to-be-a-doctor?”

Zion asked softly, watching me with his usual thin voice. I didn’t answer.

As I slowly approached him, Zion remained slumped on the sofa, unmoving. His eyes shone with a hint of anticipation as I pulled out a small vial. I took a deep breath and gripped his arm. I had administered countless injections before; there was no reason for my hands to shake, yet I felt tension rising from deep within me. It was the same nervous excitement I’d felt before my first anatomy dissection—a mix of fear and expectation. His gaze locked onto mine, making my body temperature spike by a degree.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

He asked again with that thin voice as I searched for a vein under his pale skin. Damn it. Sweat trickled down my forehead, but I had no time to wipe it away. My heartbeat quickened, and my mouth went dry.

“It’ll sting a bit.”

I warned, my voice trembling, and he chuckled as if amused. He didn’t flinch even as the milky white liquid slowly entered his veins. Kneeling next to him, I felt his steady breath brush against my forehead.

As I pulled out the needle, I met his eyes closely for the first time. He blinked, hiding and revealing his brown eyes, and for a moment, my reflection flickered in his pupils before disappearing. An irrational thought crossed my mind—that if he closed his eyes, I might be trapped in his world. Which wasn’t far from the truth; my contract explicitly stated, “No outings allowed,” and “No external calls allowed.” Not a steep price for a glimpse into the hidden life of a world star.

The sedated angel’s eyes gradually clouded over. Noticing the faint tremor in his body, I regretted not moving him to his bed earlier. His heart rate was slowing, and his blood pressure was dropping. The shiver was a sign. I watched his long lashes lower and lifted him into my arms. His body, completely slack, was heavier than expected, making my jaw clench instinctively.

“The pretty doctor puts Zion to sleep.”

He mumbled at the edge of consciousness.

I laid him down on the bed and stood in the dark, watching him for a moment. The beautiful bird with broken wings had long lashes. Beneath them, a nose with a perfect, almost impossible angle and lips that stayed shut. The lips that made it impossible for me to look away during the interview were right in front of me. I felt a sudden urge to touch his face.

The silence in the room was palpable. Zion was beautiful, like a golden-haired god in a Renaissance painting. Bringing my fingertips close to his lips was an overpowering act of curiosity piercing through reason. A fundamental human drive for beauty. But what I hadn’t anticipated was him sticking out his tongue to lick my fingers.

Startled, I pulled back and stared down at him lying in the darkness.

“The doctor kisses the sleeping Zion.”

He muttered, eyes closed. I staggered a step back. He couldn’t be conscious. Even if he were, he wouldn’t remember it once he woke up, yet my heart was racing. His lips parted again.

“Why stop? I wouldn’t mind…”

“Kim Zion, you’re misunderstanding…”

Despite knowing he was unconscious, I instinctively started to explain. I was anxious.

“If you want to, you can go ahead, Doctor.”

It took me about two seconds to process what he’d said.

“What the hell…”

A curse slipped from my lips before I could stop it. I wanted to shake him awake, yell at him to stop talking, but fear held me back—fear that he might actually regain consciousness. Instead, I took a deep, steadying breath. It wasn’t unheard of for people to spout nonsense after being administered propofol. Most patients don’t even remember what they said when they wake up. Zion would be no different. As I processed this, a small sense of calm washed over me.

Zion, with his angelic face, continued to breathe steadily, his chest rising and falling without acknowledging my last words. In the quiet room, where only the sound of his rhythmic breathing could be heard, I reminded myself that despite his fame and captivating beauty, he was just another patient under sedation—caught somewhere between dreams and oblivion.