(A/N: It's the weekend, and I've been meaning to get back to writing "Idol's Daughter." However, I'm a bit worried about messing up the plot since it's been a while since I last worked on it. I'll need to reread all the chapters I've already written to make sure there are no plot holes later on. So for those of you who are worried I'm abandoning that fanfic, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about it. I just need a little more time to get back into the flow. In the meantime, I'm using this as a warm-up and decided to share my first original story with you all. The premise is about a misunderstood main character, so I hope you enjoy it! Let me know your thoughts in the comments.)
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The room was freezing, the cold biting through layers of clothing and prompting everyone to pull their coats tighter.
A group of students huddled around a metal trolley, their faces a mix of curiosity and apprehension. All eyes were drawn to the object at the center of their lesson—a stark reminder of the seriousness of their studies.
Across from them stood a man in a deep purple lab coat, his composed demeanor cutting through the tension in the room. His steady voice broke the silence.
"Now that we've covered the kidney's structure, let's move on to the vascularization and innervations of the urogenital region."
The sharp scent of formaldehyde lingered in the air, heavy and inescapable. On the trolley lay a cadaver, its abdomen carefully opened to reveal a network of organs neatly arranged within.
But the instructor's focus wasn't on the open torso. In his hand, he held a preserved kidneys, their pale, waxy surfaces evidence of preservation.
One that had been sliced open, revealing intricate tubules and medullary pyramids, while its network of blood vessels wasperfectly preserved.
He rotated the organs slowly, ensuring each student could see. His voice was calm and precise as he explained.
"In men, the left testicular vein and in women, the left ovarian vein both drain into the left renal vein. If you remove the left kidney, that flow gets disrupted. For men, it can cause varicocele—swollen veins in the scrotum—which might mess with fertility. For women, it reduces blood flow to the ovaries, and that could affect their reproductive health."
The soft sound of pens scratching on paper mingled with the quiet hum of lab equipment. Students in their spotless white coats leaned forward, fully focused. The instructor's tone was steady and inviting, turning the intricacies of anatomy into something manageable.
A quiet chuckle spread through the back of the room. One student leaned over and whispered, "Hey, weren't you going to buy a new iPhone? Looks like you know which kidney to sell now!"
The group tried to hold back their laughter, one of them pointing playfully at the senior running the session.
The senior didn't miss a beat. His voice remained steady, calm like the surface of an undisturbed sea, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.
"That noisy group at the back," he said, his sharp gaze cutting through the room from behind his round glasses, "if you can't stop joking around, I'll have to ask you to leave."
The room fell into an uneasy silence. The students in the back row stiffened, exchanging nervous glances. His piercing glare alone was enough to freeze them in place.
It wasn't just his words that silenced them—it was who he was. The teaching assistant, notorious among students as the "Necromancer." A second-year senior whose reputation sent chills down every freshman's spine.
Tales of his merciless grading on anatomy exams were enough to leave most first-years trembling. Unsurprisingly, the noisy group clammed up without a second thought.
But why the nickname "Necromancer"? The reason was glaringly obvious. As a teaching assistant for Anatomy, he often worked with cadavers, his presence in the lab shrouded in an almost eerie intensity. Add to that his hauntingly dark eye circles, giving him the appearance of the undead, and a sharp, cutting aura that seemed to drain the room of warmth.
It was as if he commanded the dead—and everyone in the classroom knew better than to cross him.
"Damn, he gave me chills."
"For a second there, I thought he was going to bite. He looked like a zombie."
Even so, the other students kept whispering. This time, however, they spoke even softer, that they believed the assistant wouldn't be able to hear.
Despite that...
Well, I heard you, you damn punks.
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Blam!
The door slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing through the hallway. I stood still for a moment, staring blankly at the entrance to my apartment. My chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh before I finally trudged inside, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. Without a second thought, I headed straight for the bathroom.
"Don't you think... that was a bit much?" The words tumbled out, breaking the silence. I wasn't even sure who I was talking to—maybe the walls, maybe myself. It's only the third semester. So why do I already feel this drained?
I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would jolt me back to life. As droplets slid down my chin, I glanced at the mirror. Another day, another pair of hollow eyes staring back at me.
I took off my round glasses, revealing the dark, heavy bags that had been hidden behind the thick frames. My cheeks were sunken—puffed inward like a man teetering on the edge of malnourishment. Probably the result of surviving on cup ramen for both lunch and dinner, while skipping breakfast altogether.
Med school was brutal, but my appearance wasn't solely its fault. The real culprit? The endless grind of juggling part-time jobs after long, grueling days in med school.
Yeah, I probably look like a zombie. But did they really have to say it out loud? All I did was ask them—politely, mind you—to knock off the jokes. It's not like I yelled or anything. Compared to how some seniors bark orders, I was practically a saint.
I failed their anatomy exams fair and square. Why was everyone pointing fingers at me?
The anatomy assistant team made the rules crystal clear from the start. Each station had a cadaver and a question sheet taped to the table. You had 45 seconds to answer before moving on to the next station. Miss your chance? Tough luck, move along.
Write the wrong answer, cross it out, and replace it? Half points. Misspell the correct term? Half points again. But use plain English instead of Latin medical terms? Zero points. No exceptions.
Those weren't my rules. *They're just the rules!* Yet somehow, I'm the villain here.
"Ugh... Could you all stop hating me already?" I muttered under my breath, frustration clawing at my chest. Sure, I might look like a terrifying drill sergeant, but deep down, I'm a bit of a softie. Leave me alone long enough, and I might just end up crying in a corner.
It's always been this way. For ten years, people have mistaken my stern face and sharp voice for anger. But I'm not angry—I'm just tired of being misunderstood.
I rolled up the sleeve of my white shirt, exposing a small patch on my arm. To anyone else, it might look suspicious. But it was just a nicotine patch.
My smoking addiction started back in my first semester of med school. The stress, the late nights—it all drove me to light up. Eventually, I decided to try cutting out the worst part: the smoke. No more carcinogens filling my lungs, no more hacking coughs. The patch was supposed to help with that.
But now, it feels like I've traded one problem for another. Sure, I'm not smoking anymore, but the grip of nicotine on my system is tighter than ever.
Sssch.
I peeled it off my skin and tossed it aside. After finishing up in the bathroom, I dragged myself to bed. I was too exhausted to bother changing clothes and collapsed onto the soft embrace of my mattress.
Yet again, another hectic day.
I forgot to set an alarm, but it didn't matter. Even though I wasn't fully asleep yet, my body refused to move. I was already used to waking up before 4 a.m. anyway.
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I never dream. Sleep for me is just a quick dive into darkness, and before I know it, morning comes, pulling me back into reality.
But tonight... it feels different.
There's this strange sensation—soft and cool, like I'm lying on a bigger, fluffier bed. Am I dreaming? I must be. How else could it feel so real? And it's cold. Last time I checked, I didn't turn on the AC to save some money.
Then, suddenly, a bright light stabs through my eyelids, dragging me out of sleep. The softness of the bed and the gentle breeze are still there, but my body starts moving on its own, like it knows it's time to wake up. It must be around four in the morning—only that would explain why I don't feel that heavy exhaustion weighing me down.
But when I finally open my eyes, my breath catches in my throat. An unfamiliar ceiling stares back at me. I almost blurt out some cliché line, making a half-joking anime reference, but I stop myself. This isn't the time for jokes. Something's definitely wrong here.
"...Did I get kidnapped?"
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To be continued.