Chapter 657

"This is an opportunity," said Kela, a CIA agent, gripping the steering wheel. "We've already lost ground in the battle over the Philby list. If we can obtain evidence linking the Quinn family to Mexican drug lords, we can present a satisfactory report before the next representative conference."

Lilah, the Black man in the passenger seat, sighed. "The Black movement has failed. There are no other revolutionary forces left on this land. We fight alone—every step is agony…"

"Are you afraid?" Kela asked. Lilah touched his eyebrow. "Maybe. I've been disappointed too many times. One more won't matter."

"I'm sorry. I can't sway Moscow's decision. The Black Panther tragedy shouldn't have happened—but…" Kela shook her head, clearly grieving the oppression suffered by Black communists in this country.

Lilah showed no expression. "Perhaps we all know something has changed—you just refuse to admit it. I dare say, the man taking office in ten days will leave you utterly disappointed."

"New change means new hope. Change is always good, isn't it?" Kela pulled the car over. They stepped out and looked up at the building's sign: "Quinn Tower."

In his room at the Beverly Hills Hotel in Los Angeles, Hal sighed, looking at Shi Ler. "You have to help him. Since we returned from Mexico, Oliver hasn't spoken a word. He won't talk to anyone or eat. This can't go on…"

Hal glanced at the door. On the living room sofa, Arthur sat beside Oliver, offering constant comfort—but it did nothing. Oliver just sat there, vacant, silent, unresponsive.

"This catatonic state is likely the brain's instinctive self-protection after psychological trauma. To break it, deep treatment is necessary. But are you sure he'll accept it?" Shi Ler asked.

"As you just said, it's an unsolvable problem. The Quinn family has collaborated with drug lords for years, amassing vast wealth—and Oliver was raised on that wealth. It's irreversible," Shi Ler said, looking at Oliver.

"It's my fault. I shouldn't have let Galado say so much," Hal sighed, then shook his head. "No—it'll come out eventually. If he returns to the Quinn family and takes over, he'll discover these crimes."

"What do you think he's thinking? Is he trying to accept it?" Shi Ler asked.

"Precisely because I see he refuses to accept it, I need you to reach him. If this continues, you and I both know what will happen." Hal placed a hand on Shi Ler's shoulder. "From everything I've seen, Oliver is a good man—otherwise he wouldn't be suffering so deeply. I truly hope you can help him, Shi Ler…"

Shi Ler patted Hal's arm. Before leaving the bedroom, he said, "I'll do my best."

When Shi Ler reached the sofa, Hal pulled Arthur away. They left the room to dine downstairs, leaving only Shi Ler and Oliver inside.

As Shi Ler sat across from Oliver, Oliver lifted his eyes—blank, dull—then slowly lowered them, turning his gaze away.

"I know you don't want to see a therapist. You think I can't answer your questions." Shi Ler poured Oliver a glass of water. "But first, drink something. You're probably dehydrated."

Shi Ler offered the glass. Oliver didn't react. He stared at the clear water, rippling slightly—and his face twisted in terror. He shoved himself back, gasping rapidly.

"Calm down, Oliver. What you're seeing isn't real—it's a hallucination." Shi Ler leapt up, grabbed an umbrella from beside him, and turned—just as Oliver kicked the coffee table aside and collapsed to the floor, thrashing wildly.

"Get away! All of you, get away! You damned criminals, don't come near me!"

"No… no… I didn't… you're right—it was me, it was me. I killed you… the sea, that sea, red sea, blood…"

Oliver trembled violently, tears and snot streaming down his face—but he wasn't crying. This was physiological weeping; he'd lost control of his body.

Shi Ler stepped forward, stood before him, and slammed the umbrella's handle against the floor. "Those are illusions. You're in a hotel, not on the open sea. Fight it. Don't let it control you."

Oliver's neck veins bulged. He curled and uncurled his body, gripping one wrist with the other—as if trying to restrain himself.

Shi Ler sighed, withdrew a dose of tranquilizer from within the gray mist, and prepared to inject Oliver.

Without the restriction on using special abilities, Shi Ler transformed into gray mist, pinned Oliver down, and injected the tranquilizer—but Oliver's tolerance was too high. The drug had no effect. He remained in acute stress.

This isn't uncommon. During severe psychiatric episodes, patients enter hyperexcited states: muscular restraints lift, strength surges, mental activity spikes. Ordinary tranquilizers fail. Overdosing risks death.

To prevent self-harm or harm to others, sedatives are often used to suppress movement—but only trained anesthesiologists can determine safe dosages.

Shi Ler had sedatives, but no knowledge of anesthesiology. Chemical sedation might injure Oliver. So he chose an ancient method: physical sedation.

As Oliver trembled on the floor, Shi Ler raised the umbrella and struck the back of Oliver's neck with controlled force—*thud*. Oliver passed out.

Shi Ler sighed, dragged Oliver onto the sofa. Over twenty minutes passed before Oliver stirred. He grew agitated again. Shi Ler knocked him out once more. He repeated this three times before Oliver finally regained faint awareness.

Shiler sighed, moved Oliver onto the sofa, and after about twenty minutes, Oliver finally woke up; as soon as he did, he became excited again, forcing Shiler to knock him out once more—after repeating this three times, Oliver finally regained a sliver of sanity.

Shi Ler set the umbrella aside, sat across from Oliver, and looked at him lying on the sofa. "You're the most difficult patient I've ever encountered. You need not just psychological therapy—but physical therapy too…"

Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but prolonged dehydration had dried his throat. His words choked into a harsh, rasping cough.

"Cough… cough… cough…" Oliver coughed violently, then gagged. He pushed himself up, rolled back onto the sofa, and stared blankly at the ceiling.

He had endured physical torment and mental exhaustion. Now he was utterly drained.

"Thank you…" Oliver finally uttered his first sound. "But I don't need comfort. Let me be alone."

"Yes, you don't need comfort. I'm not here to comfort you. I'm here to treat you…"

"I don't need treatment," Oliver said. "I'm not sick. The sickness isn't mine. Thank you, doctor. Leave."

Shi Ler picked up the water glass again and offered it. "Drink first. We can talk. Ask anything—I'll listen patiently…"

Oliver sat up, took the glass, drained it in one gulp, choked, and coughed. Then he said, "Thank you. I'm fine. I'll recover soon…"

Watching his still-trembling arms, Shi Ler drank some water himself. "If you won't talk, drink more water. Eat something. You haven't eaten in too long."

"Yes, I will. But right now, I just want to be alone." Oliver responded mechanically—no answers, no initiative, no desire to speak. For a therapist, this was the hardest case.

"Can you tell me what's troubling you? Maybe I can offer a different answer?"

Shi Ler kept asking, but Oliver said nothing. He often drifted off, distracted. Shi Ler could tell: each time he spaced out, he was reliving those past events. A terrible sign.

All symptoms of PTSD manifested in Oliver: catatonia, re-experiencing, panic, emotional numbness, refusal to communicate. Normally, doctors would let patients rest before treatment.

But Oliver couldn't wait. He'd suffered serious injuries on the island, then endured thirst and starvation. Two more days, and he'd collapse.

At that point, his severely weakened physiology would destabilize his mind further. PTSD could become permanent trauma—and treatment would become far harder.

After repeated failed attempts, Shi Ler sighed deeply and decided to change tactics.

Shi Ler stood, returned to the room, retrieved his suitcase, pulled out several books and a file folder, and dropped them heavily onto the coffee table with a *thump*.

Oliver stared blankly at him. Shi Ler sat back down, placed his hand on the pile of books, and said:

"Let me reintroduce myself. Shi Ler Rodriguez, covert intelligence officer of the 16th Bureau of the Soviet State Security Committee—KGB agent…"

Shi Ler stretched the words, slow and deliberate:

"…a communist."

"... a communist."