Zion's Garden - Chapter 9.3
Sweat or tears dripped from his face, blurring my already darkened vision. My chest burned as if oxygen had been ripped away, and my head spun. The edges of my consciousness dimmed, but still, my lips curved in a faint attempt at a smile—an empty mockery.
Saliva trickled from the corners of my open mouth, and I knew that in my final moments of consciousness, all I could show him was my pitiful self. His shouts faded into the background as my world went black.
Then suddenly, the pressure on my neck released. Gasping, I collapsed into his arms, choking on the air I so desperately needed. Zion pulled me close, burying his face in my shoulder. He stayed silent as I struggled to calm my racing heart.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly before he finally spoke, his voice heavy with emotion.
“…I’m broken.”
“I know, you psychopath,” I replied hoarsely, unable to suppress my frustration.
And then, my beautiful, tormented patient begged me.
“Can’t you fix me? I’m completely broken… can’t you save me?
Please, Jeong-won, I need you.”
Hearing Zion’s faint sobs, I closed my eyes. An old Christmas carol I’d once heard on television floated into my mind. A bitter laugh escaped my lips, my shoulders shaking. Zion was selfish and cruel, even in his vulnerability. He knew, without a doubt, that I could never truly reject him.
By the next morning, before six, Zion had left the castle with his entourage. I was grateful I’d slipped back into my room before dawn. The last thing I needed was for his staff to confirm what his manager had already suspected—that Zion and I were entangled in ways that crossed every boundary.
“I’ll be back soon. Rest up,” he had murmured before leaving, his words brushing against the blankets I had pulled over my head.
Once the commotion of his departure settled and silence returned to the castle, I sprang out of bed.
The sleepless hours of the night had been filled with one singular thought: I needed to leave this place.
After a cold shower, I dressed in the clothes I had worn when I first arrived—pressed pants and a clean shirt hanging untouched in the closet.
“Oh… Doctor…”
One of the staff, balancing a breakfast tray, froze at the sight of me preparing to leave. They hesitated, as if unsure whether or how to stop me. Though they rarely spoke to either Zion or me, their unease was clear—they knew I was doing something forbidden but didn’t know how to intervene now that Zion was gone.
“I’ll be back shortly,” I said loudly, almost defiantly, and headed toward the door.
To my surprise, no one stopped me. If they had, I’d prepared an excuse about running an errand for Zion’s medication.
“You’ll need a taxi. You can’t walk down the mountain,” said a staff member hesitantly, pulling out a phone.
Their suggestion was an unexpected relief.
I paid the taxi fare and stepped out near the hospital. Students in light clothing rushed across the crosswalk as I stood at the curb, momentarily frozen. The world outside was in full swing, already soaked in the warmth of early summer. Sweat clung to my long-sleeved shirt, a reminder of the two months I had spent locked away in Zion’s secluded forest castle.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and began walking toward the hospital. The familiar sights returned—patients in wheelchairs basking in the sun, caregivers grabbing quick bites, and the distant sound of an ambulance arriving. These everyday scenes were ones I had once known intimately and somehow forgotten during my time away.
Passing through the hospital buildings, I climbed the stairs to Professor Jung’s office. He looked up as I knocked and entered, pausing as he reached for a coffee cup.
“What brings you here?”
“I had to step out. A relative is unwell,” I said, keeping my tone even.
Professor Jung glanced toward the hallway, a curious expression crossing his face.
“You came alone?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down. Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
Despite my refusal, he poured instant coffee into a mug and filled it with hot water. The aroma mingled with the stale air in his office, making the already stifling atmosphere unbearable.
“How’s it going?” he asked after a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“With Zion.”
“As expected. His bipolar disorder has advanced significantly,” I replied curtly.
“That’s all?”
I met his gaze steadily, refusing to elaborate.
“I can’t say more. Patient confidentiality. You understand, especially with someone as… high-profile as Zion. One slip of the tongue could have serious repercussions.”
Though my words were sharp, I felt no guilt. If anything, I resented him. He had sent me there, knowing the risks. Had I known I’d become nothing more than Zion’s plaything, I would have refused outright.
Professor Jung lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag before speaking.
“I know this has been tough for you.”
I unbuttoned my collar, desperate for air.
“But you’ve done well. It’s been two months. Do you know how many doctors Zion went through after his last psychiatrist’s suicide?”
I didn’t answer.
“Over ten. Not one lasted more than two weeks. Zion’s special, as you said. A patient like him should be institutionalized, not catered to. Those doctors probably felt powerless, useless, and utterly defeated.”
“So, you sent me because I’m expendable?”
He hesitated before replying.
“When I got the offer, I thought about declining. But then you came to me, saying you wanted to leave the hospital. I’ve seen how hard you’ve fought over the years, even after your mother passed. I didn’t want to lose you as a student.”
“So, you sent me to Zion as a test? To see how far I’d go?”
Memories of Zion’s smug smile burned in my mind. I clenched my fists, suppressing the anger that threatened to boil over.
“Just one more month, Dr. Han. Finish the contract, take the money, and go to the U.S. The research position is still open. Five years there, and you’ll come back with opportunities you’ve never imagined.”
A year ago, I couldn’t accept his offer—I was tied down by family obligations and lacked the resources. But now, with Zion’s payment, there was nothing holding me back.
“…I’m not sure I can fix him in a month.”