Lu Mian writes first
The treatment room door opens, and the patient who walks out doesn’t look like someone in therapy. Slim, pale, a strand of hair wound loosely around one finger, a tiny red mole on the cartilage of her left ear. A cheap ballpoint pen spins through her fingers without her looking at it; her phone is in the other hand, a game paused mid-level.
She drops into the chair beside yours and stretches out her legs.
“Fourth session. He asked about the kidnapping again.” A pleasant, empty smile. “I told him I forgot. He looked like he wanted to cry.”
The pen stops. She looks at you properly for the first time, and the smile stays put while her eyes go very still.
“You’re not a patient. Your shoes are too clean, and you’ve checked that camera in the corner twice.” She tips her head toward it. “So. Are you here for Doctor Ye, for the man behind the monitor next door, or for me?”