Chapter 1: First Encounter

The first time Rong Shen saw An Tong was in the CBD district of Xiangjiang City.

It was late autumn, with a biting cold wind sweeping through the streets, and within minutes, a soft drizzle began to fall.

At the intersection, a black Mercedes MPV was idling in the left-turn lane. Inside, a man with a languid yet refined air sat in the backseat. Startled by the sound of rain, he glanced out the window and witnessed an unforgettable scene.

It was rush hour; pedestrians hurried past, their steps quick and impatient to return home. Amid the newly kindled city lights and the misty rain, a frail, slender figure stood near the line dividing cars from foot traffic, lost in thought.

She stood out, abrupt and conspicuous. People called to her, others whispered among themselves, but she seemed oblivious, unmoved by it all.

Not until a traffic warden approached and gently pulled her aside did the girl blink her hollow eyes and mumble something, head bowed.

It was a fleeting, dramatic scene that held Rong Shen’s gaze for a moment, but failed to capture any deeper concern. He supposed she was merely a troubled young woman, venting her emotions alone at the edge of the street.

At twenty-seven, Rong Shen’s temperament had been tempered by time. Steady and restrained, he had long since abandoned any inclination toward sentimental compassion.

...

At half past eight that night, An Tong returned, drenched, to the old house on Yunhai Road.

The building was rather dilapidated, its exterior walls shedding plaster with age and neglect. Even the small courtyard, hardly twenty square meters, was choked with weeds.

Unlocking the padlock on the double wooden doors, An Tong crossed the path through the yard and entered the house.

She had just taken off her icy coat when her phone vibrated. It was a message from the Mental Health Center, reminding her of her appointment the next day.

She set her phone aside and fell into a daze.

On her way home from work, her symptoms had flared up again—a sensation of being detached from her own body, uncontrollable and all-consuming. Her eyes lost focus, her limbs moved sluggishly, and her whole body felt numb and heavy, like a soulless puppet on strings.

Exhausted, she collapsed onto the sofa, her gaze settling on the altar and the black-and-white photograph on the wall. An overwhelming sense of abandonment, as though cast away by the world, washed over her.

...

The next morning at eight, An Tong arrived for her appointment at Xiangjiang City’s Private Mental Health Center. This was a privately run clinic—its records were not linked with public hospitals, ensuring the utmost privacy.

Following the receptionist’s directions, she made her way down the corridor to the room on the left.

She knocked softly, and upon hearing a response, entered.

Unlike the warm-toned reception room from her previous visit, this room was dominated by cool, grayish hues. An Tong’s eyes swept the space and came to rest by the window.

A tall, imposing figure stood bathed in the autumn sunlight, dressed in a classic pairing of a white shirt and black trousers—steady, tasteful, and typical attire for a psychotherapist.

He was holding a phone, apparently in conversation; the sunlight softened the lines of his profile, lending him a composed and restrained presence.

An Tong did not interrupt. Holding her appointment slip, she stood patiently by the broad desk.

The man ended his call, turned into the light, and, catching sight of An Tong, a flash of surprise crossed his eyes. “Can I help you?”

His voice was low, tinged with a husky magnetism. As he approached, his tall frame filled the room with a subtle pressure.

An Tong handed him her appointment slip, deliberately ignoring the aura he exuded—a commanding presence he could not quite conceal. “Hello. I’ve come to collect my psychological assessment report.”

Just then, urgent knocking sounded at the door. Cheng Feng, his assistant, poked his head in, tense. “Ninth Master, apologies—the front desk says she’s in the wrong room—”

Rong Shen cast Cheng Feng a sidelong glance, raising his hand slightly. “It’s fine. You can go.”

Cheng Feng stared blankly for a few seconds, then turned and closed the door, his movements stiff with confusion.

What just happened? What was Ninth Master doing?

Outside, the receptionist was still whispering anxiously to Cheng Feng, her face pale. “Brother Cheng, what’s going on in there? I swear I didn’t do it on purpose—I told her to go to the reception room on the left, not the Ninth Master’s lounge!”

Expressionless, Cheng Feng stood rooted to the spot, thinking that he too would very much like to know what was happening.

...

Rong Shen had not expected to see An Tong again so soon.

The scene from yesterday evening still lingered fresh in his mind; he recognized her at a glance.

Now, An Tong sat across from Rong Shen, her fisherman’s hat pulled low. The clean, cool air about her seemed a world away from the lost and broken girl he had seen on the street.

She appeared quite young, perhaps just over twenty. Her eyes were clear but empty, devoid of vitality, and her delicate features seemed wooden and blank, lacking any spark.

With some interest, Rong Shen turned on the computer before him, logged into the center’s system, and quickly pulled up An Tong’s medical records and assessment report.

Name: An Tong.

Age: 21.

Mild anti-social tendencies; avoidant personality; occasional severe episodes of emotional detachment; lacking in empathy and the ability to relate to others.

Psychological assessment: Urgent need for counseling and intervention.

Assessed by: Han Qi.

At the end, Rong Shen turned the screen toward An Tong. “Are you willing to undergo counseling and therapy?”

An Tong glanced at the report on the screen, then looked at the man before her, as if considering how to respond.

Rong Shen leaned back in his chair with unhurried grace, every movement reflecting the composure unique to a mature man.

When An Tong remained silent, he raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping a few degrees. “Are you willing, or not?”

Instead of answering, An Tong asked, “How much does therapy cost?”

“Three thousand per session.”

“And the duration?”

“A minimum of three months; at most, a year.”

An Tong lowered her head, calculating inwardly.

Rong Shen did not rush her, idly picking up a sandalwood ornament from the corner of the desk, turning it in his hand.

It was clear that the girl before him was not well-off.

All the more intriguing—at the height of her youth, what could have led her to such world-weariness and emotional detachment?

...

Half an hour later, An Tong left the center ahead of schedule.

She said she would think it over and took down Rong Shen’s number.

Soon after her departure, Han Qi, the therapist who had conducted her assessment, arrived in the lounge.

“Ninth Master? Are you planning to take on An Tong’s case yourself?”

Rong Shen stood up with the same calm elegance, collected and poised.

Han Qi, unable to gauge his intentions, stepped forward, a note of seriousness in his tone. “I don’t object to you taking the case, but since the center was founded, you’ve never dealt directly with patients. People with these kinds of psychological disorders can be unpredictable. If you act rashly, what if—”

A flicker of displeasure crossed the man’s eyes, but his lips curved with an uncharacteristically faint smile. “Rashly, you say?”