A Gentle Intruder (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 1

The night deepened peacefully.

After finishing her rounds, Da Jung returned to the desk, organized the charts, and wrote nursing notes. By the time she finished checking morning consultations, prescriptions, and surgery schedules, it was almost 3 a.m. She gently pressed the base of her neck and did a light stretch. Night shifts were always a battle against sleep.

Nothing had happened. Fortunately.

She hoped the deep, quiet calm would last until morning. Hospitals were places where astonishing things constantly occurred. Da Jung still remembered the warmth of the 486-gram baby she’d held in her hands. That little one, whose prenatal name was Tae Myeong—meaning “robust”—had lived only two days in the NICU before becoming a star. So had many other babies.

In the seasoned silence of dawn, she prayed toward the stars—asking them to return in an even lovelier form. The indelible weight of life pressed heavily on her heart. It grew heavier by the day. She sometimes wondered if one day her heart would collapse under its unbearable burden.

‘I need to wake up a bit.’

She brewed a cup of warm green tea.

At that moment, a shrill call tore through the stillness.

‘Where’s it coming from?’

Instinctively, Da Jung glanced at the wall clock. The LED display glowed 3:28 a.m. It was an ominous hour. Bad things in obstetrics usually happened in the early morning.

When she realized the call originated from Bed 5 in Room 707, Da Jung’s heart plummeted. That patient was the most high-risk expectant mother in the entire ward. The time she’d spent praying fervently for no emergencies had shattered like glass.

“I’ll go check right away.”

As she hurried down the hall, she pictured the expectant mother in Bed 5 lying pale-faced on her bed.

Kim Hye Jin. Age 33. Singleton pregnancy. 26 weeks.

The patient had been hospitalized since 20 weeks and had spent a month and a half confined to her room. Her cervix, weakened by repeated IVF treatments, had begun opening during the second trimester, putting her at severe risk of preterm labor. She’d endured long, tedious days lying in bed 24/7.

She ate lying down and showered only once a week. Holding on was the only way her baby could survive. The high-risk obstetrics ICU was simply a place where you lay still and endured—over and over again.

Da Jung quietly opened the door and approached Bed 5.

“Ms. Kim Hye Jin, are you okay?”

Generally, fetuses surpass 1 kilogram around 28 weeks, at which point survival rates increase dramatically. Reaching 28 weeks was the primary goal for every high-risk expectant mother coming to the hospital. And Kim Hye Jin was just past the midpoint of her 26th week.

She’d lived like a corpse for a month and a half, and now the summit was only ten days away.

“Oh, Nurse… I’m… having contractions.”

Da Jung squeezed her eyes shut. There was no time to lose.

“I’ll increase your ritodrine dosage and run a contraction stress test.”

She checked the IV line and quickly prepared the NST machine. Since it was a familiar procedure, the patient lifted her hips promptly to assist. As soon as the test began, strong, regular contractions appeared clearly on the monitor. Oh no. Da Jung’s vision blurred black. She asked rapidly,

“How long have you been having contractions? Is anything leaking down there?”

“The dull pain started right after dinner. I fell asleep, but my stomach kept hurting, so I just woke up. I don’t think anything’s leaking.”

“I’ll call the on-call attending physician immediately. This is an emergency.”

There was no time to delay. Just as she turned to leave, the patient grabbed Da Jung’s hand. Her fingers trembled like an aspen leaf.

“Nurse… will my baby be okay?”

She didn’t know. Da Jung’s eyes automatically locked onto the monitor screen. Truthfully, the prognosis wasn’t good. The contractions were strong, rapid, and perfectly regular—just like those of mothers already in active labor.

At this stage, medication would be useless. Da Jung replied while mentally preparing to call Pediatrics to secure a NICU bed.

“Haet Sal Yi will be okay.”

After a month and a half of hospitalization, nurses and patients became half-friends. They’d shared everything—baby’s prenatal name, hometown, hobbies, even the husband’s occupation—in hushed, intimate talks. Yes, Kim Hye Jin was practically Da Jung’s friend.

One hour later.

After the on-call professor’s examination, Kim Hye Jin was ultimately transferred to the delivery room. Though it wasn’t yet the baby’s time, it ignored its mother’s desperate pleas and finally slipped through the birth canal, taking its first step into the world. Pediatrics went on high alert. Tubes dangled like vines from the tiny newborn’s body.

Morning came.

“Nurse Yoon, you worked hard through the night.”

Early-shift nurses greeted her warmly.

Da Jung thought about Haet Sal Yi, weighing 774 grams. Though the baby had received steroid injections for lung maturation and might manage some independent breathing, she envisioned the long, grueling battle ahead—riddled with countless complications.

“It’s nothing. Ms. Kim and her baby are the ones who truly suffered. I’ll go check on them.”

As she walked out after her shift, brilliant sunlight flooded the streets. The glare of the sun on the day Haet Sal Yi was born stung her eyes until tears spilled over.

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In the middle of a road, thick with scattered plumes of smoke, the door of a black sedan opened, and a man stepped out. He casually brushed off his blood- and dirt-streaked suit and tossed the gun he’d been holding onto the roadside. With weary, heavy steps and a deep sigh, he surveyed his surroundings, his expression desolate.

Among the dozens of fallen bodies, not one stirred. His dark eyes gleamed sharply. He hurried toward the man collapsed at the center of the scene and snatched the bag from his grip. A cold, mocking smirk curled at one corner of his lips—frostier than the Arctic. Facing the rising sun, he slowly began to walk away.

“Cut!”

Director Ma Young Jun, watching the monitor, clapped enthusiastically and shouted with vigor,

“Great job, everyone!”

“You worked hard!”

“It’s over!”

At the director’s signal, hundreds of previously hushed crew members finally erupted into cheers. The final shoot for the film “The Man in Gray,” which they’d chased relentlessly for a year, was complete. It had been an especially grueling project due to its many experimental approaches.

“Hyung! You crushed it!”

Manager Byung Hoon approached the man and took his gunpowder-scented jacket, handing it off to the stylist. Stylist Soo Mi frowned slightly at the blood-stained garment before stuffing it into a duffel bag.

“Wow. It’s finally over. Oppa, you really, really worked hard on this movie.”

“You all did great too.”

The man smiled, his tired eyes closing heavily. Though exhaustion weighed heavily on his face, his naturally sculpted features appeared even more strikingly clear. Soo Mi stared blankly at that unreal face for a moment before getting up to pack her things.

The man went around offering personal thanks to the director and crew. Meanwhile, the sun had fully risen, unfolding a crisp, clear autumn morning.

“The sun’s up.”

Byung Hoon murmured.

“Man, what a brutal year that was.”

Only after the chaotic set had quieted down somewhat did the man climb into his van. He sank deep into the seat and closed his eyes briefly. The stylist handed him a neck massager and a warm cup of green tea. Having not taken a single sip of water throughout the entire shoot, he downed the tea in one go and cracked open another bottle of water.

“Hyung, give me your phone?”

“Here.”

The phone landed in his palm. He rolled his shoulders a few times to stretch, then powered on his phone. A few casual check-ins and promotional messages had piled up.

Though blessed with natural stamina and usually unfazed by demanding shoots, this film had pushed him to his absolute physical limits. It featured an unusually high number of action scenes—almost all shot outdoors—forcing him to roll through mountains, fields, beaches, and roads endlessly. It had been a year of filming action sequences to his heart’s content.

“The CEO said you should rest for a while. You’ve never properly taken a break since your debut.”

“I guess I should.”

He looked up at the sky, brightening almost painfully, then shifted his gaze back to his phone. Out of habit, he opened the cafe app and logged into his fan cafe—the one indispensable routine he could never give up, no matter how heavy his eyelids felt.

There she was. A soft, unmistakable smile touched his lips.

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The moment she got home, Da Jung took a shower and then cracked open a can of beer. The crisp scent of alcohol pierced her esophagus and sank deep into her stomach. Its sharp, stinging sensation pricked at her body.

[Yoon Da Jung. I heard from Sun Ah something bad happened at the hospital? Still, don’t drink a morning beer. Think about your gastritis. 7:11 a.m.]

A message had arrived from Kyung Jun, her closest friend—almost family—but Da Jung ignored his nagging. Today, her heartache far outweighed any stomachache. On days like this, she needed a little help from alcohol. She was only human, weak, and the weight of life was always overwhelmingly solemn.

[I already drank it. 9:30 a.m.] [You’re gonna kill me. 9:31 a.m.]

Please, let nothing happen to the baby.

She skimmed Kyung Jun’s message and set her phone aside. Lost in troubled thoughts, she turned on her laptop and logged into actor Lee Jae Ho’s fan cafe—a routine she’d maintained for three years and a cherished part of her daily life. Da Jung was one of the cafe’s moderators.

Da Jung’s sanctuary.

She immediately checked the report board, banned several illegal advertising accounts, and deleted spam posts. Since spammers never tired and posted daily, frequent monitoring was essential. Even with five moderators constantly deleting them, ads sprouted like relentless weeds.

“Ugh. These ads really are evolving sneakily…”

Next, she reviewed the membership waitlist, verifying each applicant’s responses to the screening questions. Out of 11 applicants, she approved 7. Anyone with an incorrect answer was automatically rejected.

“How can you not even know Lee Jae Ho’s debut date and still want to join the fan club?”

Muttering irritably to herself, Da Jung skimmed through the free board. As usual, there was no real news. These days, “our actor” was swamped with film shoots.

Most of the new gossip posts were filled with longing complaints.

[When will our actor finally finish filming? I miss him so much. Sob sob.]

“Yeah, seriously. I miss him too.”

Da Jung sighed deeply and took slow sips of her beer. Morning had crept past 10, and sunlight now filled the living room. Staring at the light, she suddenly thought of the NICU baby.

May sunshine-like hope reach that little one too.

On a day like this, how wonderful it would be if my actor posted even one thing on social media. With that idle thought, she habitually typed a personal post on the free board.