Chapter 58

A thick fog blanketed the world, draping nearby trees in a ghostly white veil. Beyond that, everything vanished into obscurity.

The low visibility created an illusion that this stilted house was the only structure in the entire world.

I stood beneath its long corridor, uncertain where to go.

Should I move forward? Or stay here?

The empty surroundings offered no sense of security—but in truth, solitude itself was something I was all too familiar with.

My mind felt blank. I had the sense of having left something—or someone—behind, but I couldn’t recall what.

I ran my hands along the stilted house’s long pillars, feeling the weathered grooves etched over years. Each delicate line pricked my palms.

The texture was so real.

I tried to step down. My foot lifted, poised to reach the next step, when a clear, ringing voice called from behind.

“Brother Yuze.”

I whirled around and saw a pair of jet-black eyes.

In those deep eyes lay a weighty intensity and uncontrollable obsession.

My heart jolted violently, the shock sending pain through my chest.

“Shen Jianqing…”

In that instant, I remembered what I had forgotten, and clarity washed over me.

“Shen Jianqing!”

I woke abruptly in the endless darkness of the night.

It was just a dream.

Another dream.

The air still carried the faint echo of my voice calling his name. I wasn’t even sure if I had woken myself by shouting too loudly.

This was also why I had moved out of the dormitory.

I would never forget the first time I had shouted Shen Jianqing’s name in my dorm, waking myself and meeting the strange gazes of my roommates.

They hadn’t necessarily realized anything; some even joked, asking if I had secretly gotten a girlfriend.

I didn’t know how to answer and felt an inexplicable guilt.

But over time, their curiosity grew. Some probed, asking:

“Who’s Shen Jianqing? From our school? When are you hanging out together?”

I stammered and evaded, saying only that he was a friend from another school.

Eventually, I decided to move out—not only to avoid disturbing them, but also to prevent myself from shouting ridiculous things in my dreams. Luckily, I had saved up, and with some help from my parents, I bought a small apartment in the city center, not far from school.

Autumn had quietly arrived. Nights were chilly and desolate. The city center never lacked lights. My apartment faced the street, high up, with a view over the city at night. Neon lights outside cast colorful reflections into my room; even with the lights off, I could vaguely see.

It was completely different from the Miao mountains. There, night was absolute darkness.

I wasn’t sleepy. I got up, approached the window, and stared at the dim lights of distant buildings.

Across from me stood a towering commercial building, advertised as a place “where one could live a lifetime,” combining dining, entertainment, medical care, and even tutoring centers for children.

Over time, I had learned the purpose of each floor and became familiar with the lights that never went out through the night.

It had been countless sleepless nights.

It was ironic. In the Miao mountains, in Shen Jianqing’s stilted house, amid days and nights longing for freedom, I often slept without dreaming. But here, in my own world, with the freedom I had longed for, I could not sleep.

I kept dreaming of Shen Jianqing. Every time I closed my eyes, his face filled my mind.

Sometimes normal, sometimes obsessive and cruel, most often the image of our last encounter—him sprawled on the ground, threatening fiercely.

It was a painful experience.

The more I tried to forget him, to start a new life, the more powerless I felt against this reality.

I had left the Miao mountains, but I realized I had not truly left that world behind.

I needed to rest. Tomorrow there would be an important lecture. Thinking this, I lay back down and forced my eyes shut.

In the second half of the night, I drifted between dreams and wakefulness. Finally, morning came. I got up without delay, packed my things, and walked to school.

Today’s lecture was delivered by a well-known psychology professor, on the topic of life, health, and safety. The college required all senior students to attend, counting toward credit.

I was the first to arrive. The tiered classroom was empty, and for a fleeting moment, I felt as if I had immense freedom to choose any seat I wanted.

Just as I picked a spot near the front along the side, the front door suddenly opened, and a tall girl walked in. Her hair was shoulder-length, and a thin silver ribbon was braided into it. The ribbon hung neatly over her shoulder, looking both well-behaved and strangely familiar.

I froze for a moment, unable to help staring at her a little longer.

The girl hadn’t expected anyone to be in the classroom. She looked around quietly and whispered, “Senior… Li, Senior Li, you’re here so early?”

Surprised, I asked, “You know me?”

“In our College of Literature, who doesn’t know you?” she said with a smile, revealing a dimple on her cheek. “It’s just that you don’t know me.”

While speaking, she casually walked up to the podium, took a USB drive from her bag, and began setting up the equipment. She kept her head down, hands moving quickly, muttering, “This student assistant role is really worth it—standing next to the Literature College’s recognized male idol!”

I felt awkward. I wasn’t sure whether to respond. Not responding seemed impolite, but her wording was also overly exaggerated.

An awkward silence settled in.

Just as I thought she wouldn’t speak again, she continued to chatter to herself: “At this point, shouldn’t I go through the process of introducing myself?”

She was surprisingly forward. I had no choice but to go along: “Then, what’s your name?”

The girl immediately answered proudly, “I’m your direct junior, Zhao Rugu. ‘Rugu’ as in ‘clothes may not be new, but people are as they were.’”

Zhao Rugu. Hmm. I had never heard of her—completely unfamiliar.

As she spoke, the classroom gradually filled with students. Zhao Rugu deftly opened the lecture materials, managing the entry of us seniors with poise, waiting for the professor to arrive.

When it was time to begin, the professor arrived, along with other faculty members. Zhao Rugu finished her tasks, bent slightly, and quietly approached me, pointing to the empty seat next to me with a smile in her eyes: “Senior Li, may I sit here?”

I stood and offered the seat.

The professor was stern and serious, delivering common knowledge about psychological disorders.

“Some of you are about to enter society, and others may choose to continue studying. No matter which path you take, you cannot neglect your mental health. Today, I will introduce a psychological condition that you have likely heard of before—Stockholm Syndrome.”

Immediately, a buzz of discussion broke out in the classroom. Everyone seemed fascinated by this condition, some whispering and debating their own interpretations.

The professor cleared his throat heavily from the podium. Silence returned.

“Stockholm Syndrome, also known as hostage identification syndrome, derives its name from a famous robbery and hostage incident in Stockholm, Sweden. Clinically, it manifests as the victim developing positive feelings toward the perpetrator—identification, gratitude, or even love—rather than hatred or resentment.”

As his words fell, the classroom erupted into chatter. Everyone had an opinion on this bizarre psychological phenomenon.

Amid the noise, I felt a cold sweat break out, my mind in turmoil, as if sinking into the deep sea and struggling to breathe.

Once the chatter subsided, the professor looked around the classroom and said coldly, “Do you think this condition is rare or strange? In fact, it is not uncommon.”

All eyes were fixed on him, full of curiosity.

“For example, wives who endure domestic abuse but refuse to divorce, defending their husbands in public, believing their actions were momentary lapses. Students who are bullied may develop admiration for the bully, even helping them to intimidate others. In ancient China, there are stories of serving the tiger—this psychological phenomenon has been noted for a long time.”

The students’ expressions reflected realization.

Zhao Rugu leaned toward me and whispered, “Senior Li, do you think Stockholm Syndrome really exists around us? Liking someone who harms themselves… that’s just too strange…”

Before she could finish, I suddenly stood up.

All eyes turned toward me, even the professor looked surprised.

I’m sure my face must have looked terrible at that moment, but I couldn’t stay there any longer.

“Excuse me, student, are you okay?”

I took a deep breath and said, “Professor, I feel a bit unwell.”

The professor waved a hand: “Then go to the medical office immediately.”

Relieved, I didn’t even gather my bag and hurried out of the classroom.

The air outside was fresher than indoors, but I still couldn’t breathe easily. Every word the professor had spoken rang loudly in my mind, and I didn’t even know what I was trying to escape from.

I had asked myself this question many times. Do I hate Shen Jianqing?

Of course I do.

His obsession, his madness, almost destroyed my entire life.

Yet hearing the professor’s words stirred uncontrollable guilt and fear inside me.

Stockholm Syndrome? I was sure I wasn’t that emotionally fragile. I had long known that relying on others was the least stable choice.

Then why am I trying to escape?

I had asked myself in countless sleepless nights whether I hated Shen Jianqing, always receiving a definitive “yes.”

But now, an entirely new question arose in my mind—one I had never considered before:

Li Yuze, when Shen Jianqing gravely harmed you, despite having the best chance, why didn’t you leave?