The days of being a spiritual mentor in Meiman.

"Thomas Elliott!" Bruce called out his name, he let go of his hand, threw Roman to the ground, rolled forward quickly, and punched Thomas when he came in through the window before his feet hit the ground on his chin.

Thomas already had a prosthetic leg that had just been installed. He didn't have so much time to get used to his prosthetic leg. As soon as his toes touched the ground, he suffered a heavy blow to his chin. He couldn't stabilize his center of gravity and walked straight towards Fall back.

Bruce took another step forward, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him into the room, and slammed his head against the wall.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

When Bruce let go, he stood still and took a deep breath. He looked at Thomas lying on the ground with blood on his face, and murmured in a low voice: "The textbook says that violence can vent stress...the textbook is right. "

He touched his nose with his hand, turned around, and continued to drag Roman out of the door, but as soon as he opened the door, he saw Mrs. Miller with wide-eyed eyes.

Bruce hesitated for a moment, wanting to take some measures, but Mrs. Miller immediately took a step back, pointed to the corridor, and said, "Go forward, turn right, emergency passage, the key is under the door carpet."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Mrs. Miller looked at Bruce, dragged him out, and adjusted the position of the teacup on the tray in her hand. Bruce paused and looked up at Mrs. Miller.

And Mrs. Miller looked at him condescendingly and said, "Don't worry, I've seen too many doctors in my life, and many of them dissected corpses in their offices, maybe because they don't have to follow the rules of the operating room there. "

Bruce pursed his lips, ashamed of the fuss that had just arisen in his heart, and he dragged Roman to the emergency passage, then returned, dragging the other two into it.

At this time.Mrs. Miller had already put the tray on the coffee table. Looking at the shattered glass, she pointed to the window as she walked out and said, "I will call someone to fix it."

Bruce shook his head and looked at her and said, "It's best not to..."

"Bang! Whoa!"

Bruce clenched his fists, turned his head to look at the window, and another dark figure rolled in along the window.

Bruce lowered his head and took a deep breath, opened his hands vigorously, walked quickly to the sofa, picked up the scalpel he had thrown down before, then rushed to the window, and stuck the scalpel in the black shadow Holding the window frame on the back of the hand.

Ignoring the screams in front of him, Bruce pulled out the scalpel, punched him on the nose, turned and walked back into the house without seeing his figure falling downstairs.

Mrs. Miller, who was standing by the door, watched his series of actions. When Bruce turned back, she shook her head slightly and waved to Harry in the room.

Harley didn't seem to want to leave at all, but as Mrs. Miller raised her eyebrows higher and higher, the little girl could only lower her hands, sighed, and followed Mrs. Miller away.

Before Mrs. Miller left, she left only one sentence: "I will ask the newspaper boy to deliver tomorrow's breakfast with the newspaper."

Bruce stood with his hands on his hips, looked at the mess in the office, and sighed deeply.

But what he didn't expect was that this disaster was just the beginning.

For the next week, Bruce didn't even have a chance to leave the office, as he spent every moment of his life battling serial killers except for meals and bathroom breaks.

Bruce felt that his understanding of arrogant Schiller was still a little shallow.

At first, he thought that his professor told him to deal with so many terrifying murderers in his dream because he expected that one day, he would have to face the sick Schiller.

But now he finds that this is not the case. No matter how sick Schiller is, he is alone. There is no need for Bruce to face the situation of so many serial killers joining forces. Since he has done so, it means that he I am afraid that today's situation has been expected.

For the next whole week, Bruce used the skills he had learned in the dream world to deal with serial killers to deal with the serial killers who came to slide one after another.

Bruce felt as if he was trapped in a strange space, where there was nothing but serial murderers.

But this space does not affect reality, at least not Schiller's reality.

The psychiatrist was still making outings as usual. Facing the blood-stained, blood-stained, emaciated Bruce, he acted as if he hadn’t seen him. He still wrote medical records, reviewed treatment sessions, and made rounds on time.

When some faint sunlight in the morning spilled into the room through the windows that no longer had glass, Schiller, who was wearing a dark red suit, sat on the single sofa and read the newspaper, with the food delivered by the newspaper boy in the morning in front of him.

On the other side of him, Bruce, who hadn't closed his eyes for almost seven days, was also wolfing down food.

The space is divided into two by the coffee table. On this side, Schiller is wearing a spotless suit, with every cuff button buttoned up, and his tie is neither crooked nor slanted, flipping through the newspaper unhurriedly.

And Bruce, who is opposite him, is frighteningly haggard. After returning from the slums, Bruce has kept his half-long hair, but his hair was wet from the fight with the serial murderer in the bathroom before, and at this moment, he is strand by strand. stick it on the forehead.

He hasn't shaved for seven or eight days, so the thick stubble has spread all over his chin. Coupled with his wolf-hunting expression, he looks like a full-fledged homeless man.

Schiller gently closed the newspaper, raised his eyelids to look like Bruce, and asked, "How long do you plan to stay here?"

Bruce stopped chewing, his eyes sunk into the arch of his brow, stared straight at Schiller, and said, "Wait until you send me an invitation letter."

"Do you know? Arrogance said that you are a stubborn person." Schiller shook his head slightly and said, "This kind of paranoid character may make you slip into the abyss, making you unable to rationally judge what you are in now under such circumstances."

Bruce just looked at him silently, Schiller lowered his head and folded the newspaper, and said to himself: "This morning, when I brought over a plate of vegetable salad, you were pleasantly surprised."

Schiller raised his head, looked at his office, and said: "In a closed environment, facing a person you can't resist, the standard will always drop again and again. This is a typical Stockholm situation. The more paranoid , will drag you deeper."

Bruce closed his eyes, he looked down, then turned his head away, all kinds of hallucinations flashed before his eyes.

It can be said that if his spirit had not been tempered, he would have slipped into another abyss as Schiller said.

Schiller put the folded newspaper on the coffee table, and a corner of the newspaper crossed the dividing line in the middle of the coffee table, and when it stabbed into the other half of the space, it was like a knife piercing into Bruce's body.

"Tomorrow at 9 o'clock in the evening, the banquet will start on time. All my friends will be there, and at 11 o'clock tonight, I will go out. You should understand that you can't stop me, so don't do it in vain."

After finishing speaking, Schiller stood up, turned and walked towards the lounge, Bruce squeezed out a gasp from his throat, leaned on the back of the sofa, raised his arms, and covered his eyes.

His emaciated state had nothing to do with him battling a serial killer, or being sleepless, Schiller was putting too much pressure on him.

Then, Bruce leaned his upper body forward again, put his hands on his elbows, and covered his face with his hands.

He also remembered that he had shared the same room with Schiller in the slums, and the situation was the same as it is now.

He has long seen in textbooks that a confined space will make people feel the emotions conveyed by the other party more clearly, and when trapped in a certain confined space and cannot leave, the pressure will increase exponentially.

Huge pressure combined with an irresistible situation will stimulate the body's self-protection system. Since you can't change the other party, then change yourself. Human thinking will automatically lower your own standards to cooperate with the other party in exchange for short-term comfort.

The few words Schiller just said made Bruce's defenses, which had been pushed to the edge, almost collapse.

Because he was on the verge of tears of joy when he saw Schiller bring in two plates of very pure green salads this morning.

Bruce's rationality was telling him that this was not normal at all, but in many cases, rationality was not applicable to ordinary people, and it was even more unrealistic to expect him to be able to control a mental patient.

Bruce sat quietly on the sofa like this, the light and shadow of the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him changed, and one Bruce after another appeared beside him.

Some stood in front of the window and punched the serial killer who wanted to come in, some bent down and dragged the downed serial killer out of the room, and some half knelt on the ground, picking up the broken glass.

Countless figures came and went in the room, but there was only one distinctive figure, holding a wine glass, standing in front of the door in the corner of the room, watching all this quietly, that was Schiller.

Bruce turned his head at an extremely slow speed, and saw Schiller's eyes through countless fragments of space and time.

With a "snap", the illusion in front of him was crushed. When Bruce woke up, he found himself in a cold sweat. Schiller, who had just walked out of the lounge, glanced down at his watch, and walked quickly to Office door.

Bruce suddenly turned his head to look at the window. The morning light had long since disappeared, replaced by bright moonlight, and then he looked up at the clock hanging on the office wall. It is now 10:52, and it is 11 o'clock before 8 o'clock. minute.

Schiller's hand was already on the doorknob of the office, and the moment his arm turned the doorknob forcefully, the whole office seemed to be condensed by something again.

Bruce stood up unaffected, came behind Schiller and said to him, "You can't go out and kill people, Professor."

The doorknob didn't stop turning, and Bruce, who was standing there, shook his head vigorously and said, "No, that won't work."

Then, he strode forward again and reached out to touch Schiller's shoulder, but in the next second, he found himself lying on the floor, and Schiller looked down at him, holding a stick Bloody boning knife.

The non-existent pain woke Bruce up. At this time, Schiller had pushed the door open a small crack.

Bruce stood up and quickly walked behind Schiller, but after Schiller pushed the door open, he didn't leave immediately, but stood outside the door and turned around to look at Bruce behind him, with closed eyelids and those barren gray eyes , like an ultimatum.

Bruce opened his mouth slightly and said:
"You don't have to go out."