# Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visit of Gratitude (1)

The Carefree Psychiatric Hospital in Jiang City.

"Good morning, Dr. Fu!"

"Dr. Fu, have you eaten yet? Would you like to join us?"

"Oh, little Dr. Fu is here already — so early."

She parked her electric scooter, gave the lock several firm twists to make sure it had caught, then pulled out the key.

In the courtyard, patients in their matching uniforms had already finished their morning exercises and were now moving freely about the grounds. When they spotted Fu Yuan arriving, they swarmed around her, calling out their greetings with warm enthusiasm.

Fu Yuan smiled her way through the crowd, her face growing nearly stiff from the effort, before she finally squeezed through the surrounding layers and made it into the main building.

Once inside her office, she let out a long breath. She unscrewed the lid of her insulated thermos, added some hot water, then dropped in a handful of dried chrysanthemum blossoms and wolfberries, brewing herself a cup of the sort of middle-aged wellness tea that had become her quiet daily ritual. Only then did she languidly open the attendance system to clock in.

This place was lovely, truly — it was just that the people were a touch too enthusiastic.

Enthusiasm itself was no bad thing. The trouble was that some of them had minds that leapt in the most unpredictable directions, and one could not hold extended conversations with them.

Otherwise, the next time she came to work, she might not be entirely sure whether she was the psychiatrist or the patient.

This was a private psychiatric hospital, well-appointed by any measure. The accommodations alone offered single rooms, double rooms, four-bed wards, and eight-bed wards — though single rooms required a psychiatrist's signature confirming that the patient posed no risk of self-harm before admission could be processed.

Certain newspapers liked to traffic in sensationalism, claiming that psychiatric hospitals abused their patients or even conducted human experiments on them.

This hospital was open. Family members were permitted to visit, provided they submitted an application in advance — though the approval process was swift, typically completed within half a day. Those who could not wait were welcome to call the consultation department directly and request an expedited review.

Fu Yuan took a small sip from her thermos, glanced at the time — exactly nine o'clock — and then unhurriedly opened her computer to begin drafting the day's work report.

Other doctors might have found the position taxing, but Fu Yuan was in a rather different situation: she happened to have a roommate who was the third-generation heir to a considerable fortune.

This hospital was her roommate's. Fu Yuan had entered through the back door, so to speak, and her duties consisted mainly of conducting psychological assessments for patients, along with writing a daily log — a brief summary of two hundred characters or so, nothing demanding.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Fu Yuan raised her voice toward the door: "Come in."

The door opened.

A mother and daughter entered, and there was something slightly odd about them.

The mother wore a black wool coat and black flat-leather shoes; her expression was haggard, though a faint trace of joy softened it. The girl had her hair in two short braids that just reached her shoulders and wore the standard patient uniform issued by the hospital. She looked a little thin.

They stood in the doorway, hesitating. The mother seemed to be confirming something, and only when the girl gave a nod did she take the child's hand and lead her inside.

The moment the mother crossed the threshold, she rushed forward and seized Fu Yuan's hands, her face radiant with gratitude. "Dr. Fu, thank you — thank you for curing my child!"

Fu Yuan stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"

She looked at the girl's face. It was entirely unfamiliar. Not even a flicker of recognition.

Strange. She looked again. Still nothing. This was clearly not one of her patients; she had never conducted an assessment on this child.

Besides, she was only a fresh graduate. She occasionally offered patients some psychological guidance, but she was hardly in the business of curing anyone. For anything that rose to the level of a formal diagnosis, talking alone could never suffice — medication was invariably part of the picture.

On this point, Fu Yuan had a very clear sense of her own limitations.

"Madam," she said carefully, "I think you may have the wrong person."

The mother released her hands and glanced at her daughter, then asked uncertainly, "Your surname isn't Fu?"

Fu Yuan smiled with mild awkwardness. Her surname was Fu, and she was the only person in this entire hospital with that name — not even a homophone among the staff.

"Well, then it must be you," the mother said cheerfully. "I double-checked the name on the wall downstairs several times before coming up."

As she spoke, she pulled out her phone and swiped at the screen, muttering under her breath with mild impatience: "What's taking so long? We've been here ages — where on earth is he?"

Fu Yuan gently gestured for her not to worry, and invited her to take a seat on the sofa with the child while they waited.

Her office was papered with green forest-print wallpaper. Besides her work desk, chair, and computer, it contained a leather sofa and a tea table set, and in the far corner, a narrow cot half-concealed behind a curtain.

The mother sat with the child on the edge of the sofa, her posture a little stiff.

Thinking they might feel uncertain about the tea things, Fu Yuan rose and pulled two small red plastic cups from beneath the water dispenser, filled them halfway with warm water, and handed one to each of them.

The mother held her cup in one hand and the child's hand in the other. "Are we disturbing you?" she asked, a note of apology in her voice.

"Not at all. Please make yourselves comfortable." Fu Yuan shook her head, hoping to put her at ease.

Before long, a broad-shouldered man with a close-cropped head appeared at the door — evidently the person the mother and daughter had been waiting for. He leaned in sideways, rapped on the doorframe, and upon being welcomed, stepped inside carrying several large bags.

He set everything down on the floor, then struck the desk with his right fist in a burst of elation. "Dr. Fu," he declared, "thanks to you, our little girl's persecutory delusions are completely cured!"

Fu Yuan startled. She looked down at the bags on the floor, then back at the man, uncertain.

"This is..."

The man reached into his breast pocket and produced a printed business card, which he offered to her with both hands.

"My name is Tang. These are snack gift sets made by our own company — we were pressed for time and couldn't prepare anything more suitable. A small token of our gratitude, offered with the deepest respect. We hope you'll accept it, Dr. Fu."

Fu Yuan took the card and read:

*Tang Dongfa — 067-2053360 — Tianjì Foods Co., Ltd.*

Tianjì Foods?

She looked again at the bags he had brought. Sure enough, the Tianjì logo was printed on every one of them. Inside were the newest limited-edition snack gift sets from October's release — the very ones she had spent an entire livestream launch event trying to grab at a one-yuan flash-sale price, only to be defeated by her own slow reflexes and forced to pay the full two hundred and ninety-nine yuan like a perfectly ordinary consumer.

Quite a generous gift, all things considered.

And as she studied the man's face, a growing sense of familiarity crept over her. She stole a few sidelong glances at the logo. Wasn't that him — the man printed right there on the packaging?

"Mr. Tang," Fu Yuan began, a note of uncertainty in her voice, "how can you be certain it was I who cured — your little girl? This is our first meeting, and my role here is primarily to conduct the psychological evaluations for admission and discharge. Treatment isn't my responsibility."

The man looked puzzled. He turned to glance at the girl behind him.

The girl was contentedly working her way through the snacks her father had brought — strips of spiced gluten, tiny dried fish, and an assortment of other cheerfully unhealthy treats, tearing open one packet after another. Her mother sat beside her, eyes brimming with tender emotion, and when the girl finished one bag, the mother quietly peeled open the next, murmuring for her to "eat slowly."

There was nothing about this child that suggested she had ever suffered from persecutory delusions.

"It was you. I saw you very clearly." The girl pushed a potato chip into her mouth and spoke with absolute conviction. Seeing Fu Yuan's bewilderment, she added, "In a dream. A very dark night. You killed the ox-headed demon that was carrying a lantern."

The moment she said it, Fu Yuan's thoughts slipped back to the previous night.