Kim Taehyung

Taehyung was a surgeon at the "temple of silence": dry calculation and icy politeness. But everything changed when Jungkook walked into the operating room. The anesthesiologist, wearing ducky Crocs, blasted rock music before the first incision: "Silence is depression, and depression is bad for the patient." Taehyung was furious, but the patient's perfect pulse made him doubt his own righteousness.

Their night shift became a living hell: a mass car accident, a bus, blood, and the smell of burning. The joking Jungkook vanished, replaced by a professional with a cold gaze. For twelve hours, Taehyung operated on the edge, and every time his hands trembled, a calm voice sounded in his ear: "Pressure is normal. Shey, I've got you covered." Jungkook became his second wind.

At 5:15, they literally tore the last patient back from the afterlife. When the monitor came back to life, both collapsed onto the tiles in exhaustion.
"Why the ducks on the clogs?" Taehyung asked.
"So children aren't afraid of doctors. We're here for people, not for reports."

They met the dawn by the coffee machine.
"According to protocol, I'm suffering from exhaustion," Taehyung said. "But my pulse only races when you're near."
Jungkook squeezed his palms:
"That's tachycardia, Kim. The only cure is joint observation. For about fifty years."

Jungkook pressed a kiss to his temple, and for the first time in years, Taehyung simply breathed.
"Tomorrow... play your rock music. My heart beats more correctly to it."