Chapter 2

I was discharged that day and didn’t go back to Grant Group. I didn’t reply to a single message from Viola either.

I snipped off the hospital wristband, tossed it into the trash, changed into a shirt, fastened my cuffs, and got straight into the car.

Noah was in the driver’s seat.

“Walsh’s clinic,” I said.

The car merged onto the main road. Outside the window, the city slid backward like stretched film.

My phone buzzed twice in my pocket. I didn’t check it.

Right now, any distraction was pointless. I wanted only one thing—to make Marcus Walsh tell the truth.

The clinic was inside a business tower. The reception area was quiet, the air faintly scented with disinfectant.

I didn’t stop in the waiting area. I walked up to the front desk and gave my name.

A few minutes later, the door to the consultation room opened.

I went in, Noah right behind me.

Marcus wore a light-gray sweater. A notebook rested in his hands, and his face carried that practiced warmth that never seemed to crack.

He saw me and spoke as if nothing had happened. “Leon, you look better than I expected. How have you been sleeping since the crash? Is the headache still—”

“Skip the small talk,” I cut in, staying on my feet. “I’m not here for therapy.”

His smile paused, then returned as if on a timer. “Then what are you here to talk about today?”

I lifted one hand—not a big gesture, but it landed like a switch being flipped.

Noah set a folder on the coffee table, opened it, and slid it toward Marcus.

Transfer records. Visitor logs. Timestamp comparisons—laid out in clean order.

At the top of the first page, the payee was Marcus’s personal account. The payer had been routed through two layers, but no amount of detouring could hide the name behind it.

Marcus glanced down. His fingers stiffened, and his breathing hitched. He pushed the folder back an inch, like the paper was hot. His voice dropped. “Leon… where did you get these?”

I looked at him, calm. “If I want to investigate, I can find anything. Don’t test my patience. Explain what you did to me.”

Marcus tried to steer the conversation back into his familiar rhythm. “Leon, these records might be a misunderstanding. I work with many—”

“I said if I want to dig, I can dig. Do you want me to investigate on my own and send all of this to court, or do you want to tell me yourself?” I cut him off. “That ‘relaxation training’ you put me through every month—what was it?”

The room went quiet for two seconds.

Marcus raised his eyes and held mine, as if confirming a fact he didn’t want to admit.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. A sheen of sweat appeared at his temples. Even his professional smile couldn’t hold.

I sat down across from him, glanced at my watch, and waited—silent pressure.

Marcus put down his pen. His palms opened, his posture turning cautious, like he could already feel consequences closing in. “Fine. Yes. I took money, and I did interfere. Victor paid me to plant suggestions and distort your perceptions during your sessions—to maintain a specific emotional inclination.”

“Inclination toward whom?” I asked.

“Viola.” His voice was dry. “Hypnosis isn’t what you see in movies, where someone snaps their fingers and you black out. It’s more like repeated reinforcement. Every month when you came in, I’d guide your attention to concepts like ‘security,’ ‘belonging,’ ‘the right choice,’ and then I’d set Viola’s face as a trigger. So the moment you saw her, you would automatically bind her to those feelings.”

Noah finally couldn’t hold back. “And you call that treatment?”

Marcus’s lips trembled. He looked like he wanted to argue, but the words died halfway, as if he’d finally remembered exactly where he was sitting.

I didn’t comment. I went straight for what mattered. “Describe the effect.”

Marcus spoke faster, like he was afraid that if he slowed down I’d end him. “You’d feel a strong attraction, then it would escalate into attachment, compromise, rationalization. Her needs would feel more important. You’d proactively clear obstacles for her. Her face was the most stable identifier, so the anchor was tied to your recognition of her facial features—especially her eyes and expressions. When you saw her, you’d feel she was uniquely important. But it wouldn’t make you completely irrational. In major business decisions—ownership disputes, for example—you would still follow reason.”

I tapped the armrest once. “Then why did it fail?”

Marcus swallowed, his voice dropping further, the panic now obvious. “Maybe because after your crash you didn’t come to the clinic for a long time. I didn’t have a chance to do the reinforcement, so the suggestions started to decay. And while you were hospitalized, your mental state wasn’t stable—pain, broken sleep, medication—all of that makes suggestions that rely on a steady routine easier to loosen. And on top of that, there’s the issue of recognizing the anchor…”

I thought of the photo I saw after waking up—Viola at a festival, her face covered in bright paint, almost unrecognizable. That must have been when the anchor slipped.

Marcus hurried to add, his tone turning into pure self-preservation. “That’s all I know. I don’t know the deeper plan. Victor only demanded that I make sure you fell in love with Viola. As for why, and whether Viola knew— I don’t know.”

I watched him. “Does it still work on me now?”

“I’m not sure,” Marcus said. “There may be residual effects, but they should fade over time. If you trust me, I can do real treatment for you—remove it completely—”

“I don’t trust you.”

The room fell silent again. Marcus looked at me like he was waiting for a verdict, the warmth gone from his eyes, leaving only tension.

Noah lowered his voice. “Should we go to the police? Or hand this to the board right away?”

I didn’t hesitate. “No. Calling the police now only alerts Victor. He’ll dump everything on Marcus and drag us into a fight that never ends. I want to know why he did it. I want every piece of leverage he has inside the company, clean and complete—so we can kill this in one strike.”

Noah’s expression darkened. “Understood. Then next—”

I turned back to Marcus, my voice steady, absolute. “Next, you do exactly what I say.”

Marcus nodded immediately, fast enough to look desperate. “Tell me.”

“First, you don’t tell anyone about this,” I said. “Not Victor, not Viola, not anyone you think can protect you. You leak one word, and your license, your accounts, and your records all become problems.”

Marcus’s face went pale. “I understand.”

“Second, you act normal,” I continued. “Keep seeing patients. Keep replying to them. Keep behaving like you still have me under control. They need to believe I’m just recovering slowly, that I’m having mood swings—not that I’m awake.”

Marcus clenched his fingers. “He’ll ask about your condition.”

“Then answer the way you always have,” I said, watching him. “Stable. Normal. Controllable. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

His shoulders sagged. Finally, he nodded, voice low. “I’ll do it.”

I stood up and didn’t linger.

Noah gathered the folder and followed me out.

The door clicked shut softly, but it felt like a clean cut between Marcus’s world and mine.

Back in the car, Noah finally let out what he’d been holding. “I thought it was just利益 connections at worst. I didn’t think it would go this far.”

“Surprise doesn’t help,” I said. “Give me the tablet.”

Noah handed it over.

I opened the company system and gave him the next order, direct and immediate. “Start with Victor’s business lines. Audit the projects he handled—funds, contracts, and any related-party transactions. Tonight.”

“And Marcus—” Noah started.

“After this is over, we clear him too,” I said. “And find me a new therapist.”

Noah nodded. “Understood.”

The car slipped back into traffic, and the city lights glided across the windshield.