At the top floor of a brownstone building on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan's Upper East Side, Song Zhixin's clinic resembles an exquisitely designed cage. Beyond the one-way glass lies New York's ever-burning neon lights, while inside the glass is the atonement room she created for those lost souls on Wall Street.
"Dr. Song, your last patient has arrived," the assistant whispered through the headset. "He doesn't have an appointment, but insists on seeing you."
Song Zhixin put the DSM-5 diagnostic manual back on the shelf, her fingertips brushing the gold-embossed spine. Last-minute visitors at nine p.m. usually fall into two categories—impending financial elites orRich second generation drug overdoses. She adjusted the silk blouse under her white coat, ensuring every button was in itsPrecise position.
"Send him in."
When the door opened, there was no expected smell of alcohol or cologne, but a rust-like scent of blood mixed with gunpowder. Song Zhixin looked up to see an Eurasian man with a suit jacket casually slung over his shoulder, his left hand pressing his right arm, dark red seeping through his fingers.
"I suppose you don't offer emergency services here?" The man'scorner of the mouth curled into a smile that was completely at odds with his wound. His eyes, under the clinic's soft lighting,present a strange amber color, like melted whiskey.
Song Zhixin's gaze swept over his expensive custom suit, the Patek Philippe on his left wrist, and—most crucially—the faintly visible holster at his waist. Her alert system was fully activated.
"Mr. Yu," she glanced at the business card he tossed on the table, the gold-embossed "Jin Capital"lettering shimmering under the light, "this is a psychological counseling clinic, not a trauma center."
"Dr. Song does recognize me." Yu Jin walked straight to the therapy chair, as naturally as if in his own office. "Looks like that Wall Street Journal interview wasn't in vain."
Song Zhixin pressed the silent alarm button under the desk, remaining composed on the surface: "What you need is a surgeon."
"What I need is you." Yu Jin suddenly grabbed her wrist, with just enough force to prevent her from breaking free without causing pain. "I heard you can make Goldman Sachs' risk director quit cocaine in one session."
His palm was unusually hot, and Song Zhixin could feel the rhythm of his pulse—too fast for someone with an injury, more likeJust completed an extreme sport. She pulled free and took out a medical kit from the drawer.
"Take off your shirt," she ordered, putting on medical gloves. "If you insist on getting treated here."
Yu Jin raised an eyebrow, untying his tie and unbuttoning his shirt with one hand in a disturbingly fluid motion. When the fabric slid off, Song Zhixin gasped—Except the fresh gunshot wound, his chest was covered in old scars, some clearly from explosions.
"Graduation gift from West Point," he noticed her stare. "Afghanistan is more honest than Wall Street—at least bullets come from the front."
When Song Zhixin used tweezers to remove the bullet, Yu Jin didn't even tense his muscles. She deliberately pressed the wound hard with an alcohol cotton ball, but he only chuckled: "Dr. Song, are you always this rough with patients?"
"Only with dishonest ones." She dropped the bullet into the tray, the metallic clink crisp. ".22LR, civilian ammunition. Which hedge fund manager ambushed you?"
Yu Jin suddenly leaned forward, his blood-scented breath hitting her ear: "Why don't you ask how I know your clinic's back door code? Or why I chose today to visit?"
A jolt of electricity ran down Song Zhixin's spine. She stepped back, hitting the medicine cabinet. Amid the clinking of glass bottles, Yu Jin pulled a photo from his wallet and pushed it in front of her—a Gothic church basement with walls covered in charred handprints.
"The Mark of the Scorch Sisterhood," he said softly. "My father painted an entire wall before he died."
Song Zhixin's breathstagnation for a second. The fire fifteen years ago should have burned all evidence, including those girls' desperate handprints.
"You've got the wrong person," her voice was surprisingly steady. "I'm an addiction psychologist, not an occultist."
"You're the only surviving psychologist among them." Yu Jin slowly rolled up his blood-stained shirt cuff. "I need someone who understands both Wall Street and the underground world, and you—"
The alarm suddenly blared, cutting him off. The monitor showed three men in black suits forcing their way into the building.
"It seems your pursuers have found you," Song Zhixin calmly turned off the alarm. "The fire escape is—"
Yu Jin had already dragged her toward the hidden door behind the bookshelf. In the narrow elevator shaft, Yu Jin pressed her against the rusted metal wall, their breaths intertwining. In the darkness, she smelled not just blood on him, but a faint whiff of gunpowder—as if he had just detonated something.
"Dr. Song," he whispered in her ear, his voicewith a dangerous smile. "Which do you think hurts more—dopamine withdrawal or a gunshot wound?"
The footsteps above grew closer. Song Zhixin looked up, meeting Yu Jin's eyes that were still bright in the dark, and suddenly realized she was caught in a more dangerous game than the Scorch Sisterhood—playing psychological warfare with a man who gambles with life and death.
"Your problem," she lowered her voice, "is treating addiction as a weakness, not a weapon."
The hum of mechanical operation came from below the elevator shaft. Song Zhixin felt Yu Jin's heartbeat suddenly accelerate—the first time tonight she'd detected hisreal physiological reaction.
"Interesting," he tightened his arm around her waist. "Looks like we'll have to continue this session, Doctor."
When the pursuers' flashlight beams swept over their hiding spot, Yu Jin suddenly kissed her. This gunpowder-scented kiss was more tactical cover thanEmotion and desire—but Song Zhixin was shocked to find her pulse betraying her professional judgment, beating at the frequency classified in DSM-5 as "euphoria induced by dangerous behavior."