Chapter 36 The Professor Who Doesn't Accept Private Consultations
——In this world, there are only two kinds of people who can make her make an exception: the dead and Mo Xiaohan.
Bangkok Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons International Psychiatry Summit
In the academic hall, Professor Ella Klein stood in the center of the podium, her short silver-gray hair neatly tucked behind her ears, and the gaze reflected by her glasses was sharper than a scalpel.
As a leading authority in the field of PTSD worldwide and the founder of the Institute for Psychological Trauma at the University of Zurich, she has led the psychological reconstruction of war refugees and survivors of terrorist attacks, and enjoys an almost mythical reputation in the international medical community.
The audience was filled with top psychiatrists from around the world, and she was coldly rebuking a colleague's overly lenient treatment plan: "Trauma isn't meant to be 'soothed,' it's meant to be dissected, looked at, and ultimately, crushed!"
Her voice was calm and clear, like the precision of a scalpel. "Patients must learn that the pain belongs to the past, and they are safe now."
There was thunderous applause from the audience.
This world-leading expert on post-traumatic stress disorder saw hell firsthand while serving with Doctors Without Borders.
The congealed blood in the killing camps of Congo, the skeleton of a child clutching a doll in the ruins of Syria, the rusted iron cages of a human trafficking stronghold in Southeast Asia.
So she made a rule: not to accept private consultations, not to treat the powerful and wealthy, and only to save those who really needed help.
Just as she was flipping through the pages of her speech, the heavy wooden door of the academic hall was pushed open and the entire room fell suddenly silent.
A man in a black suit walked in slowly. The sound of his leather shoes rolling across the marble floor made several professors in the front row unconsciously straighten their backs.
It’s Mo Xiaohan.
He didn't look for a seat, but leaned casually against the wall, his arms folded, his eyes fixed directly on Professor Klein on the stage.
The dean of the medical school was sweating profusely and whispered to the professor, "This is Mr. Mo, he..."
"I know who he is," Klein interrupted with a calm tone. "But my principles remain unchanged. I won't accept private consultations."
Mo Xiaohan's lips curled slightly.
Very good, this woman is not afraid of him, which is just what he wants.
After the lecture, Professor Klein was sorting out materials in the lounge when the door was silently pushed open.
Without even raising her head, her scalpel-like hearing had already captured the breathing rate of the person outside the door - calm, restrained, with the oppressive feeling of being in a superior position for many years.
The next second, a shadow fell on the spread-out documents.
Mo Xiaohan had been standing in front of the table without her knowing when. The shoulder line of his black suit was as straight as a knife, and the watch exposed on his cuffs flashed a cold light under the refraction of the ceiling light. He did not make any unnecessary movements, but just pushed a file in front of her - it was a brain scan of Ruan Xingchen, showing abnormally active hippocampus and old damage to the prefrontal cortex, a typical complex PTSD.
"Professor Klein," he said in a low voice, "I'll take a few minutes of your time."
"Why are you looking for me?" Klein sneered. "You have the best psychiatrist in Southeast Asia under your control."
"Because they can only prescribe medicine while kneeling." Mo Xiaohan pulled out a photo - Ruan Xingchen was curled up at the foot of the bed, her eyes as empty as broken glass. "I want her to stand up and kill someone."
Klein's gaze lingered on the photo for a moment, his tone remaining calm. "What does she mean to you?"
"When she was five years old, she gave me a cookie in the slums." Mo Xiaohan lowered his voice, "Seventeen years ago, she was the light."
His voice was rarely filled with a hint of suppressed tension. "Seventeen years later, someone auctioned her off as a commodity."
The professor finally raised his eyes, his gaze behind his glasses sharp as an eagle: "So?"
"So—" He suddenly took a step forward, his shadow completely enveloping her. "If she doesn't get better, I'll bury all the psychiatrists in Southeast Asia with her."
Klein curled his lips, revealing a hint of sarcasm: "Threats are useless to me."
"It's not a threat." Mo Xiaohan took out a document from his arms, "It's a deal."
The first page of the document is a photo of the execution of a Congolese warlord, who was the commander of the massacre camp at that time.
On the second page, there was a report on an explosion at a chemical weapons factory in Syria, where she had lost three colleagues.
Page 3...
"That's enough." Klein slammed the file shut. "How did you get these?"
Mo Xiaohan raised the corners of his lips, but the smile did not reach his eyes: "Because it was me who made these people disappear."
The lounge fell into silence, with only the sound of breeze from the air-conditioning vents.
After a minute-long silence, Klein suddenly asked, "What will you do if I don't agree?"
Mo Xiaohan buttoned up his suit and said calmly, "Buy the University of Zurich and turn it into a specialized hospital for PTSD."
"Then?"
"I made you the dean." He paused and added, "I kidnapped you."
Klein finally revealed a genuine smile, one that held a hint of absurdity and understanding. "Madman."
"each other."
She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyebrows: "Bring her to see me at 8 o'clock tomorrow morning."
"The helicopter will pick you up at six."
"Seven o'clock."
"Six thirty." Mo Xiaohan turned and left, "She can't wait that long."
That night, the entire Bangkok medical community was going crazy.
1. Professor Klein, who never accepts private consultations, made an exception;
2. The patient is Mo Xiaohan’s woman;
3. The dean of the medical school retrieved all PTSD-related papers overnight because Mo Xiaohan said, "If it can't be cured, burn down the building."
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