Zion's Garden - Chapter 3.1

The moment Zion’s hand fell limply onto the bed, I felt a surge of unease. If I kept watching him like this, I feared what foolish thing I might do next. It wasn’t so much his unconscious form that disturbed me—it was the dread of my own potential actions. I hurriedly opened the door and stepped out of his room, closing it behind me with a sigh of relief.

The evening was still far from descending into night, yet I already craved the burn of alcohol. Zion was proving to be the most challenging patient I had ever encountered. The most unsettling part was that less than 24 hours had passed since our first meeting.

A week went by after that intense first encounter. I did my best to push the memory away, reassuring myself that it was fortunate I recognized his state quickly. If Zion wasn’t dangerous, Professor Jung’s assurances were a lie. He was a tightrope walker on a frayed line, a child clutching a live grenade.

The tablets I found in his freezer were definitely ketamine—a potent anesthetic used for both humans and animals, known for its powerful hallucinogenic effects, even stronger than LSD or ecstasy. Although it could be used to treat depression, its abuse led to severe physical and psychological dependency, accompanied by withdrawal symptoms.

I wondered what Zion’s reaction would be when he realized that hundreds of those tablets were now dissolving somewhere in the sewers. Strangely, he had been relatively calm over the past three days. The pills I left out on the dining table at regular intervals vanished as expected, and he spent most of his time sleeping. It wasn’t so much that my prescribed medication was effective; it was that during his waking hours, I was relieved to avoid him.

Zion’s estate—his “castle,” as I had decided to call it—wasn’t empty. It just felt that way. The staff moved like shadows, stealthy as alley cats. If ninjas existed in reality, they would move like these people. The array of protein shakes and health juices in the fridge were clearly for Zion, and it seemed like that was all he ever consumed.

Meals were provided, though not prepared in the grand kitchen, which showed no signs of use. Instead, three times a day, trays of food were silently brought in. My assumptions of lavish, five-star hotel-level dining were wrong. The food resembled extravagant hospital meals: meticulously planned by a dietitian, undoubtedly nutritious, but lacking in appeal. The most infuriating part was that I was expected to share these unappetizing meals with him. Whether Zion touched them or not, there were always two trays, and one was mine.

When I cornered one of the shadowy staff members one early morning and asked why I had to share the patient’s meals, he had looked at me with a strained expression and mumbled, “I’m sorry, but this isn’t up to us,” before fleeing the room.

Damn it. I needed to know who made these decisions. But even if I did, how would I communicate my wishes? Zion was the only person I could talk to, and the real problem was that he wasn’t exactly sane.

The door clicked open. I estimated it to be around one in the morning, judging by the cymbal sound I had heard earlier from the oversized wall clock. There was no clock in this room, and my phone had been taken from me before I entered the estate. The wristwatch my mother had given me as a university entrance gift lay forgotten in my old bag. Setting my glass of whiskey on the side table, I glanced at the unexpected visitor.

“What is it at this hour?” I asked, more tired than annoyed.
Zion stood in the doorway, thankfully clothed. That fact alone was enough to unsettle me. The whiskey churned in my stomach, hot and bitter.

“I can’t sleep.”

He leaned against the doorframe, eyes half-closed, watching me intently. I bit my lip.

“Did you take your medication?”

“I did. My body feels heavy and tired, but my head is spinning. I counted up to five hundred thirty sheep, and now my room is full of bleating sheep—I feel like I’m suffocating.”

He looked at me as if this was somehow my fault. His stare made it clear he expected a solution, though I knew there wasn’t one. Doctors are human, not gods, and there are limits to what humans can do.

“Forcing yourself to sleep can be stressful. It’s better to relax your mind, try meditating or listening to soft music—” I cut myself off abruptly, startled by how easily the words had come out. Zion stood in the doorway, his eyes glistening with that enigmatic light. He stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

“That’s precisely why I’m here,” he said.

My throat tightened, the rest of my prepared advice dying on my tongue. Zion’s hand dipped into the loose waistband of his pants, pulling out a small remote, which he tossed onto the bed. The room filled with the soft, sultry voice of a female singer.

“Madonna’s Secret. It’s perfect for sleepless nights,” he added, a wry smile playing on his lips.

“If you’re planning to stay here, then I’ll leave,” I said, willing my voice to remain steady.

“You look as restless as I feel,” Zion replied, his gaze never wavering.

“I usually go to bed late,” I countered, the space between us growing taut with unspoken tension.

“Is it because you drink until exhaustion takes over, or do you drink because you can’t sleep?” He reached for the glass on the side table, lifting it to his lips and taking a deliberate sip, his eyes challenging me to respond. A flare of heat surged in my chest, anger tinged with something else I refused to acknowledge. I wanted to yell at him to get out, to break the charged silence between us, but instead, I forced my words out as evenly as I could.

“Do I need to answer questions unrelated to your treatment?” I asked.

Zion let out a soft laugh, leaning forward to dim the light with a flick of his fingers. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. I pushed the blanket aside, ready to leave. The air felt stifling, every breath heavy with tension. But beneath it all was a gnawing fear—fear of what he might do next and fear of my own reaction.

He settled himself beside me, glass in hand, eyes searching. His tongue traced his lips before brushing against the rim of the glass. A wave of heat rushed over me, memories of our kiss just days before threatening to resurface. I pushed them back, clinging to professionalism.

“Mr. Kim Si-on… are you serious about seeking treatment?” I asked, my voice hardening with the effort to stay detached.
He chuckled softly. “Well, isn’t that what a doctor does?” His breath, tinged with whiskey, fanned against my face. He was so close I reflexively leaned back.

“Drug treatment should be combined with psychological and cognitive therapies,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back to professionalism. “This requires a strong commitment from the patient.”

“It’s something you have to adhere to,” I added, my tone wavering.

“Or maybe the doctor is just as invested,” Zion replied, a small, sly smile curving his lips.

“That doesn’t apply to us,” he said, tilting his head with a playful innocence that made his words more biting. His laughter was light, almost childlike, yet it had a cruel edge. I felt exposed, as if a detective had caught me red-handed with damning evidence.

“Why do you think that?” I asked, trying to mask my unease.
“It doesn’t really matter,” he said casually. “So, you don’t have to look so serious. I’ll keep the secret that my doctor’s an alcoholic. In fact, I quite like him that way.”

The word alcoholic struck like a blow. There were plenty of doctors who leaned on the crutch of alcohol—it was practically a cliché. But hearing it from him made my blood simmer. I glared at him, my unruly patient, who spoke with such careless arrogance.

“Please leave, Mr. Kim Si-on,” I said, my voice low and steady.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Then I’ll go,” I said, standing. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“A doctor’s role isn’t to refuse a consultation,” Zion said, a sly smile playing on his lips. “If you’re here to perform, you should at least put on a good show. After all, nothing in this world is free. That’s why our charming doctor didn’t receive his contract fee for nothing.”

He handed me a glass of wine, his gaze sharp as I stood there, words caught in my throat. “Drink. Let’s get on with this so-called ‘treatment.’”

I drained the glass in a single swallow, the burn settling my nerves just enough to think clearly again. I opened the drawer, pulled out my glasses, and placed them on the bridge of my nose. With a pen and notebook in hand, I sat down beside Zion. Consulting a patient from the edge of a bed was unorthodox, but in this chaotic world we occupied, nothing was ever truly out of place.