"Five years, Hana. Cleanly sliced away, like a piece of spoiled fruit."
Dr. Choi clicks his tongue, the sound echoing in the sterile silence of his office. He's staring at the lightboard where Min-ho's brain scans are pinned up—glowing, ghostly maps of a territory I no longer own.
"It's not spoiled," I snap, my voice cracking. I'm standing because sitting makes me feel like I'm waiting for a funeral. "Those were the best years of his life. Our wedding. His promotion. The night we stayed up until dawn talking about our future children. You can't just... slice that away."
"To him, they never happened," Dr. Choi interrupts gently, turning to face me. He looks at my arm in the sling, then at the dark circles under my eyes. "Retrograde amnesia of this specificity is rare, but not unheard of. The trauma to the hippocampus has created a chronological 'wall.' On one side, he is twenty-five, an ambitious intern with his whole life ahead of him. On the other... there is only a void."
"And me?" I ask, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "I'm in that void."
"Yes. You, his marriage, his current cases, his enemies. Everything from 2021 to now is gone. To Prosecutor Kang, you aren't his wife. You're a stranger claiming a life he doesn't recognize."
"So what do I do?" I step closer, my good hand gripping the edge of his desk so hard the wood bites into my palm. "Do I show him photos? Do I tell him about the pier? Do I force him to remember?"
"No," Choi says firmly. "Forcing him could cause a psychological break. He's already agitated. He feels like he's been kidnapped by a future he didn't sign up for. Right now, he needs stability. He needs to feel in control."
"Stability?" I let out a jagged, bitter laugh. "He just asked for his ex-girlfriend. A woman he hasn't seen in half a decade. How is that stable?"
The doctor sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "In his mind, she is the last person he loved. It's a survival mechanism, Hana. He's reaching for the last anchor he remembers."
I turn away, staring out the window at the gray Seoul skyline. Rain is still streaking the glass, blurred lines of water that look like tears. An anchor. I was his anchor. I was the one who stitched his wounds and listened to his rants about corrupt chairmen. Now, I'm just a 'disturbing presence' in a room I used to call home.
"I need to go back to him," I mutter, heading for the door.
"Hana, wait—"
I don't wait. I'm already in the hallway, my flats silent on the linoleum. My mind is a whirlwind of tactical data and heartbreak. If he doesn't remember the last five years, he doesn't remember the Park Group investigation. He doesn't remember why he was at the pier. He doesn't know that every breath he takes in that hospital bed is a target for someone with a silencer.
I reach the corner leading to his VIP wing. I stop.
My bodyguard instincts, the ones I tried to suppress for the sake of a 'normal' marriage, are screaming.
A man in a blue janitor's uniform is standing by the nursing station. He's holding a clipboard, but he's not looking at the cleaning schedule. He's staring through the glass window of Room 402. Staring at Min-ho.
He isn't moving. He isn't blinking. He's holding a phone in his left hand, the screen glowing. He looks like he's taking a photo of the vitals monitor.
"Excuse me?" I call out, my voice dropping into that low, dangerous register I haven't used in years.
The man stiffens. He doesn't turn around. He just tucks the phone into his pocket and starts walking toward the service stairs—not the elevators, the stairs.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
I bolt.
My sling jerks against my chest, a spike of white-hot pain shooting through my shoulder, but I ignore it. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. I round the corner just as the heavy steel door to the stairwell begins to hiss shut.
"Hana! Where are you going?" I hear Ji-hoon's voice behind me, but I don't stop.
I slam my good shoulder into the stairwell door. It flies open. The sound of rapid, heavy footsteps echoes down the concrete shaft.
"Stop!" I roar, leaning over the railing.
I see a flash of blue fabric two flights down. He's fast. Faster than a janitor should be.
I don't take the stairs one by one. I vault over the railing of the first flight, landing hard on the landing below. My injured arm screams, a warm sensation spreading under the bandage—blood. I've popped the stitches.
Doesn't matter. Catch him.
I reach the fourth-floor landing just as the door at the bottom clicks. I burst through into the basement parking garage. The air is cold here, smelling of exhaust and damp concrete.
"Stop right there!"
The man is twenty yards away, sprinting toward a black sedan with tinted windows. He glances back, and for a split second, I see his eyes through the shadows of his cap. Cold. Professional. The eyes of a hunter.
He reaches the car. The door swings open before he even touches the handle. He dives in.
"Freeze!" I reach for my waist, my hand searching for the weight of my Glock—but it's not there. I'm in a borrowed cardigan. I'm unarmed.
The tires screech, a high-pitched wail that echoes off the low ceiling. The sedan lunges forward, swerving around a concrete pillar. I run after it, memorizing the plate—72-Ga-4839—but the car is already disappearing up the ramp into the daylight.
"Damn it!" I scream, kicking a stray traffic cone.
I'm standing in the middle of the garage, gasping for air, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My shoulder is soaked now, a dark red blossom spreading across the white sling.
"Hana! Are you insane?"
Ji-hoon skids to a halt at the top of the ramp, his face pale. He runs down to me, grabbing my good arm. "What were you doing? You're bleeding! Your stitches—"
"The janitor," I gasp, pointing at the empty ramp. "He was watching Min-ho. He had a phone. He was reporting back."
"A janitor?" Ji-hoon looks confused. "Hana, this is a high-security hospital. Maybe he was just... working."
"He wasn't working, Ji-hoon! He ran the moment I spoke. Normal people don't sprint down six flights of stairs because a woman asks them a question." I grab Ji-hoon's lapels, dragging him closer. "They're here. They know he's alive. They're coming back to finish what they started at the pier."
Ji-hoon's expression shifts from annoyance to grim realization. "The Park Group?"
"Who else? Min-ho is the only one who saw their faces. He's the only one who knows where the file is." I wince as a fresh wave of pain hits my shoulder. "Even if he doesn't remember it, they don't know that. To them, he's a loose end that needs to be cut."
"We need to call the police. Official protection," Ji-hoon says, reaching for his phone.
"No." I shake my head fiercely. "The Chief Prosecutor is already leaning on Min-ho to drop the case. The police are riddled with moles. If we bring in a full squad, we won't know who's guarding him and who's waiting for the right moment to pull the plug."
"Then what? You're going to guard him yourself? In a sling?"
"I'm the only one who can," I say, my voice hardening. "I don't care if he hates me. I don't care if he thinks I'm a stranger. I'm not leaving that room."
We walk back up to the VIP wing. The silence of the hallway feels heavy now, pregnant with hidden threats. I make Ji-hoon wait by the door while I go to the restroom to fix my bandage. I wrap it tight, biting my lip to keep from crying out.
When I come back out, Dr. Choi is standing by the nursing station, looking frantic.
"He's awake again," Choi says. "And he's demanding his personal effects. He wants his phone, his wallet, and his calendar. He's trying to 'verify' the date."
"I'll give them to him," I say.
I walk into Room 402. The lights are dimmed, but Min-ho is sitting upright, his back straight, his jaw set in that stubborn line I know so well. He looks like he's preparing for a cross-examination.
"You again," he says, his voice flat. He doesn't look at my bloody sling. He doesn't look at my face. He's looking at the leather briefcase Ji-hoon is holding.
"I brought your things, Min-ho," I say softly.
"Prosecutor Kang," he corrects me sharply. "We are not on a first-name basis."
I flinch, but I keep my face neutral. I've handled international terrorists; I can handle a husband with an attitude. "Prosecutor Kang. Here is your phone. It's encrypted, so you'll need your biometric—"
"I know how my own phone works," he snaps, snatching it from my hand.
He presses his thumb to the sensor. It rejects him. He tries again. Reject. His face reddens. "Why won't it open? Did you change the settings?"
"You updated the security three months ago," I explain, my heart aching. "You used a 10-digit code after the biometric started failing during the winter."
"What's the code?"
I hesitate. The code is our wedding date followed by the day we bought our home. "03-30-20-23."
He types it in. The phone clicks open. He stares at the wallpaper—a photo of us on the beach in Jeju, his arms wrapped around my waist, his face buried in my neck, laughing.
He stares at it for a long time. His thumb trembles over the screen. For a second, just a second, I see a crack in the ice. I see a man looking at a miracle he can't explain.
Then, his face hardens. He swipes the screen away, opening his contacts.
"This is a fabrication," he mutters. "A sophisticated deep-fake. People don't just 'forget' five years. You're working with someone. Is it the rival firms? Did they hire you to play this part?"
"Min-ho—Prosecutor Kang—look at the call logs. Look at the thousands of messages we've sent each other. Look at the photos of our home."
"I am looking at a digital record that can be altered," he says, tossing the phone onto the bed like it's trash. "I want my physical ID. My intern badge."
"You aren't an intern anymore," Ji-hoon says from the door. "You're the Senior Prosecutor of the Third Division. You've put away more criminals in five years than most do in twenty."
Min-ho looks at Ji-hoon, then back at me. He looks trapped. He looks like a man who woke up on another planet and everyone is telling him he's the king.
"I want to see the news," Min-ho says. "Turn on the TV."
I pick up the remote and turn on the news. The headline scrolls across the bottom: 'PROSECUTOR KANG MIN-HO RECOVERING AFTER BRUTAL ATTACK AT INCHEON PIER. PARK GROUP INVESTIGATION IN JEOPARDY.'
He watches the screen, his eyes widening. He sees his own face, older, sharper, more tired. He sees the footage of the pier, the yellow police tape, the blood on the concrete.
"I was investigating the Park Group?" he whispers.
"Yes," I say. "You were days away from an indictment."
He sinks back into the pillows, the fight suddenly draining out of him. He looks small. "I don't remember any of it. I don't remember the case. I don't remember the pier." He looks at me, his eyes searching mine with a raw, terrifying vulnerability. "I don't remember you."
"I know," I say, stepping closer. I want to take his hand so badly it hurts. "But I remember for both of us. I'm going to stay right here. I'm going to make sure you're safe."
"Safe from what?"
"From the people who did this to you. They're still out there, Min-ho. And they're looking for you."
He looks at me for a long beat. The suspicion is still there, but beneath it is a flicker of the man who always valued logic above all else. "If you are who you say you are... if you are my wife... then why am I so afraid of you?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. I don't have an answer. How do I tell him that he's afraid because his soul knows I'm the only thing he has left to lose?
Before I can answer, my phone vibrates in my pocket. A message from an unknown number.
Check the flower delivery at the nurse's station. Room 402 is next.
My blood turns to ice. I look at the door, then back at Min-ho, who is already closing his eyes in exhaustion.
If the janitor was just the scout, then who is currently standing at the service entrance with a "delivery" for the man who isn't supposed to wake up? And why did the hospital security cameras go dark exactly three minutes ago?