The sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the hospital air, sterile and suffocating. Lee Ji-hee pushed through the sliding doors of the ward, his coat hanging open, his chest still tight from the run through the parking lot. His stepfather, Lee Gang-min, stood at the foot of the bed, his shoulders tense, his face carved with worry lines that no corporate mask could hide.
On the bed lay Lee Bo-ram.
Her face, usually full of sharp wit and quiet defiance, looked fragile under the white sheets. The monitors beside her beeped steadily, indifferent to the storm gathering in the room.
"Ji-hee," his father said, his voice low and heavy. "She just woke up… but something's wrong."
Ji-hee swallowed hard and stepped closer.
Bo-ram's eyes were open, but the gaze behind them was… elsewhere. Dazed, unfocused, like she was looking through them both rather than at them.
"Bo-ram-ah," Gang-min called gently, his commanding voice trembling just slightly. "It's Appa. Do you hear me?"
Her lips moved. Softly at first, then firmer, repeating names that struck Ji-hee like blows.
"Richard… Henry… Isabel…"
The English syllables rolled strangely off her tongue, foreign yet fluent, as if she had spoken them a thousand times before. She kept repeating them, her voice rising and falling in a trance-like rhythm.
Gang-min's brows furrowed deeply. "Why… what is she saying?" he muttered, almost to himself.
Ji-hee crouched down near the bed, forcing calm into his voice. "Bo-ram. It's me. Ji-hee. Your brother. Look at me."
But she didn't. Instead, her lips trembled again, and this time she whispered with startling clarity:
"Hye-won… Hye-won…"
Ji-hee froze. The name of their mother.
Gang-min stiffened, a shadow crossing his face. His late wife. Her stepmother.
"Why is she—" His voice cracked. "She's… she's calling for her?"
Bo-ram's pupils fluttered as if she were struggling to stay present. "Hye-won… who… who is that? Who?" Her voice grew desperate, questioning herself aloud, like she was peeling back layers of her own identity.
Ji-hee felt his stomach twist. This wasn't just disorientation. This was something else—something uncanny.
Then, suddenly, Bo-ram stilled. Her lips curved into a faint, eerie smile.
"Mom…" she whispered, but not like a child in need, It was drawn out, excited, happy almost reverent, almost… chilling. "Mom…you're here…"
Both Ji-hee and Gang-min froze in place.
"Bo-ram!" Gang-min barked, his panic breaking through. He rushed forward, clutching her hand. "Who are you talking to? Stay with us!"
But Bo-ram's eyes rolled back, and with a sharp exhale, she collapsed into stillness. The monitors spiked in alarm as her body went slack.
"Bo-ram!" Gang-min roared, his grip tightening as if sheer force could tether her to this world.
Ji-hee's blood turned cold. His hands shook, but he forced himself into action, bolting for the door. "Doctor! Somebody—doctor!" His voice echoed through the sterile corridors, raw with urgency.
Behind him, his father's cries filled the room, a sound Ji-hee had never heard before—a man stripped of power, begging against the inevitable.
Ji-hee's legs carried him faster than thought, his mind a haze of fear. His sister's voice still echoed in his ears—those foreign names, his mother's gentle one, and finally that bone-chilling cry for her mom.
And for the first time since he'd taken up the title of acting president, Ji-hee felt utterly powerless.