Je Mukyeol, a hepatobiliary and pancreatic surgeon who was once considered South Korea's top physician and a candidate for the next hospital director. And I, who was once his lover but am now an ex-boyfriend worse than a stranger.

Now, instead of a state-of-the-art operating room, we find ourselves in a dilapidated rural clinic reeking of pain relief patches, spending our days prescribing anti-inflammatories and athlete's foot cream instead of performing high-difficulty surgeries.

How on earth did it come to this?

To explain the reason, we have to go back a few months.

During a high-difficulty surgery, a momentary error in judgment led Mukyeol to nick a blood vessel, causing unexpected massive bleeding. The patient barely survived but never regained consciousness.

It wasn't intentional. But the outcome of medical malpractice remained unchanged.

As fierce backlash from the media and the bereaved family followed, the hospital held Mukyeol accountable. After a settlement with the family, the criminal case ended with a suspended sentence. However, the hospital's disciplinary committee handed down a severe penalty, and Mukyeol, removed from his position at the main branch, was chased away to a rural branch—essentially a demotion.

And I, who was in the same operating room at the time of the accident, was swept up in the aftermath along with that bastard Je Mukyeol. Pushed out of the main branch under the pretext of surgical team reorganization and personnel adjustment, I ended up coming down to the countryside with Mukyeol, a place I never wanted to be.

The genius surgeon who shone brightest in Seoul, and me.

We were once the closest people to each other, but now we have become people who must watch each other's downfall from the front row.

And so, our bitter and grueling life of exile in the countryside began.