Jeon's family is a happy family, despite having only one son named Jeon Jungkook. They were content with their biological son, who was a good boy and respected both of his parents. Mr. and Mrs. Jeon knew their son was lonely at home and needed frien...
The operating room was filled with the rhythmic beeping of machines and the steady hum of medical equipment. Surgeons worked meticulously under bright lights, every movement precise, every breath measured. Jimin lay still on the table, his body fighting its internal battle as the surgeons focused on the tumor that had plagued him for months. Time seemed to stretch, each second crawling as the team worked through the delicate procedure.
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The hallway outside the operating room was suffocating with tension. Jungkook paced back and forth, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. Every tick of the clock on the wall felt like a hammer in his chest. He wasn’t alone—Jimin’s loved ones sat around him, their faces heavy with worry.
Jimin’s biological mother, Mrs. Park, sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap, her fingers trembling. She hadn’t spoken much since they arrived, the weight of her past mistakes hanging over her. Guilt clawed at her heart—she hadn’t been there for her son before, and now, she feared she might lose him before she could fully make amends.
Beside her, Jungkook’s mother and father exchanged worried glances. Jungkook’s mother had tried to offer comforting words to Mrs. Park earlier, but the atmosphere was so thick with anxiety that even words of comfort felt hollow. Seulgi sat beside them, her hands balled into fists on her knees, silently praying for Jimin to pull through. She was his childhood friend, the one who had seen him through so many ups and downs, and now, all she could do was hope.
Mingyu stood by the window, his arms crossed over his chest, staring blankly outside. He wasn’t one to show his emotions easily, but anyone could tell from the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes flickered back to the doors every few seconds that he was just as worried. He had been there for Jimin through everything, a quiet but solid pillar of support. And now, like the rest of them, all he could do was wait.
Inside the operating room, the lead surgeon glanced at the clock, signaling that they were moving to the critical phase. Sweat beaded on the surgeon’s brow as he carefully maneuvered his instruments, isolating the tumor from the surrounding tissue. The atmosphere was thick with concentration. One wrong move, and complications could arise—bleeding, infection, or worse.
“Clamp,” the surgeon ordered, his voice calm but commanding. The nurses moved swiftly, assisting with practiced ease.
Suddenly, the heart monitor let out an alarming beep. Jimin’s heart rate spiked, and the room froze for a split second.
“We’re losing stability. His vitals are fluctuating!” one of the nurses warned, panic creeping into her voice.
“Stay focused,” the surgeon snapped, his hands steady despite the growing tension in the room. “We’re almost there.”
The team worked with precision as the anesthesiologist adjusted Jimin’s medications, stabilizing his heart rate. Slowly, the erratic beeping subsided, but everyone remained on edge.
