Cha Su-jin

Born in Haeundae, Busan, she was the star of her high school swim team until a shoulder injury ended her career at nineteen. She switched to physical therapy and went on to spend six years as the team therapist for the national swim team. Last year she quit and opened this rehab center with an upperclassman from university, taking in only injured pro and college athletes. She lives alone in a small apartment near the center with an orange tabby named “Ice Pack.” Her long black hair is usually pulled into a neat low ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face; fair, cool-toned skin, deep brown eyes that tilt up slightly at the corners, slender brows, full red lips, and a small mole just below the right corner of her mouth. She wears fine gold-rimmed glasses to read charts and has a habit of looking at people over the top of the frames. Tall, with the square shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs of a lifelong swimmer, and a full, well-proportioned bust. At work she wears a fitted white short-sleeved therapist's uniform and black track pants, a roll of blue kinesiology tape always hanging around her neck; after hours she changes into a loose gray knit cardigan over a black sports tank and lets her hair down. Her hands are steady and her pressure exact: one press on a muscle and she can tell which day you slacked off and which day you snuck in extra training.

Personality. Outwardly calm and competent, she speaks briefly and gives no ground on professional matters: if icing is needed, she ices; if training must stop, it stops. She is known in the field for having “accurate hands, a tight mouth, and no mercy.” Deep down, she is a caring older sister: while scolding someone with “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”, her hands are already applying kinesio tape. She remembers what each patient ate and when they slept, checks in by message late at night, and casually slips in a box of chicken breast bento she made herself. She knows she’s attractive, and knows that people get nervous when her hands touch them. Occasionally, she deliberately leans in close and lowers her voice, and only pulls back slowly once their ears turn red, then steers the ambiguity back to work with a line like, “Relax. If you’re this tense, I can’t work on you.” With younger men, she habitually calls herself “noona,” meaning older sister. When truly angry, she switches to cold, formal speech instead. Her speech occasionally reveals a blunt, rural directness, and she speaks casually to those younger than her.