"Thomas Elliot!" Bruce called out his name. He let go of his hand, threw Roman to the ground, rolled forward quickly, and punched Thomas who came in through the window before his feet even touched the ground.
Hit him on the chin.
Thomas originally had a newly installed prosthetic leg. He didn't have much time to adapt to his prosthetic leg. As soon as his toes touched the ground, he suffered a heavy blow on his chin. He was unable to stabilize his center of gravity and pointed straight towards
He fell over from behind.
Bruce stepped forward and grabbed him by the hair, dragged him into the room, and then slammed his head against the wall.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
When Bruce let go of his hand, he stood there and took a deep breath. He looked at Thomas lying on the ground with his face covered in blood, and murmured in a low voice: "The textbook says that violence can relieve stress... The textbook is right.
"
He touched his nose with his hand, turned around, and continued to drag Roman out of the door. But as soon as he opened the door, he saw Mrs. Miller's eyes widening.
Bruce hesitated and wanted to take some measures, but Mrs. Miller immediately took a step back, pointed to the corridor, and said: "Go forward, turn right, emergency exit, the key is under the door blanket."
"Thank you, ma'am."
Mrs. Miller looked at Bruce and dragged him out, while adjusting the position of the teacup on the tray in her hand. Bruce paused and looked up at Mrs. Miller.
Mrs. Miller looked at him condescendingly and said: "Don't worry, I have seen too many doctors in my life. Many of them dissected corpses in their offices, maybe because they don't have to follow the rules of the operating room.
"
Bruce pursed his lips, ashamed of the fussing emotion that had just arisen in his heart. He dragged Roman to the emergency passage, then returned and dragged the other two people in.
At this time, Mrs. Miller had already put the tray on the coffee table. Looking at the broken glass, she pointed at the window as she walked out and said, "I will ask someone to repair it."
Bruce shook his head and looked at her and said, "It's best not to..."
"Bang! Bang!"
Bruce clenched his fists and turned to look at the window. Another black shadow rolled in along the window.
Bruce lowered his head and took a deep breath, opened his hands vigorously, walked quickly to the sofa, picked up the scalpel that he had thrown away before, then rushed to the window and inserted the scalpels into the black shadow.
The back of the hand holding the window frame.
Ignoring the screams in front of him, Bruce pulled out the scalpel and punched him in the nose. He turned around and walked back into the house without looking at his figure falling downstairs.
Mrs. Miller, who was standing by the door, watched his series of actions. When Bruce turned back, she shook her head gently and waved to Harley in the room.
Harry seemed not to want to leave at all, but as Mrs. Miller's eyebrows raised higher and higher, the little girl could only lower her hands, sighed, and followed Mrs. Miller away.
Before Mrs. Miller left, she only left one sentence: "I will ask the newsboy to deliver tomorrow's breakfast together with the newspaper."
Bruce stood there with his hands on his hips, looking at the mess in the office, and sighed deeply.
But what he didn't expect was that this disaster was just the beginning.
In the next week, Bruce didn't even have a chance to leave the office. Except for eating and going to the bathroom, he spent every moment fighting the serial murderer.
Bruce felt that his understanding of Arrogant Schiller was still a bit superficial.
At first, he thought that his professor asked him to deal with so many horrific murderers in his dreams because he expected that one day, he would have to face the sick Schiller.
But now he discovered that things are not like this. No matter how perverted Schiller is, he is only one person. There is no need for Bruce to face the situation of so many serial killers joining forces. And since he has done so, it means that he
I'm afraid I have expected what will happen today.
For the next whole week, Bruce used the skills he had learned in the dream world to deal with serial killers to deal with the serial killers who came one after another to slide.
Bruce felt as if he was trapped in a strange space where there was nothing but serial murderers.
But this space cannot affect reality, at least not Schiller’s reality.
The psychiatrist was still attending clinics as usual. Facing the bloodstains on the floor, covered in blood, and haggard Bruce, he acted as if he hadn't seen him. He still wrote medical records on time, reviewed the course of treatment, and made rounds on the ward.
When some weak sunlight in the morning shines into the room through the windows that no longer have glass, Schiller, wearing a dark red suit, is sitting on a single sofa reading a newspaper, with the food delivered by the newsboy in the morning in front of him.
Opposite him, Bruce, who had not slept for almost seven days, was also devouring food.
The space is divided into two parts with the coffee table as the dividing line. On this side, Schiller is wearing a spotless suit, with every cufflink buttoned, his tie not crooked, and he is flipping through the newspaper unhurriedly.
Opposite him, Bruce was frighteningly haggard. Since returning from the slums, Bruce had kept his semi-long hair style, but the previous fight with the serial murderer in the bathroom had wet his hair, and now it was wisps of hair.
Stick it on the forehead.
He hadn't shaved for seven or eight days, so thick stubble covered his entire chin. Coupled with his gobbling expression, he looked like a complete tramp.
Schiller gently closed the newspaper, raised his eyelids to look at Bruce, and asked: "How long do you plan to stay here?"
Bruce stopped chewing, his eyes sunk deep in his eyebrows, stared directly at Schiller, and then said: "Wait until you send me an invitation."
"Do you know? Arrogant said that you are a stubborn person." Schiller shook his head slightly and said: "This kind of paranoid character may make you fall into the abyss and make you unable to judge rationally. Where are you now?
Under such circumstances.”
Bruce just looked at him silently. Schiller lowered his head to fold the newspaper and said to himself: "This morning, when I brought you a plate of vegetable salad, you felt a surprise."
Schiller raised his head, looked at his office, and said: "In a closed environment, when facing someone who cannot resist, the standards will always drop again and again. This is a typical Stockholm plot. The more paranoid you are, the more paranoid you are.
, it will drag you deeper.”
Bruce closed his eyes, lowered his head, and then turned his head away. Various hallucinations flashed before his eyes.
It can be said that if his spirit had not been tempered many times, he would have slipped into another abyss as Schiller said.
Schiller placed the folded newspaper on the coffee table. A corner of the newspaper crossed the dividing line in the middle of the coffee table, and when it stabbed into the other half of the space, it was like a knife, piercing Bruce's body.
"The banquet will start on time at 9 o'clock tomorrow night. All my friends will be there. And at 11 o'clock tonight, I will go out. You should understand that you can't stop me. Don't do it in vain."
After saying that, Schiller stood up, turned and walked to the lounge. Bruce squeezed out a breath from his throat, leaned on the back of the sofa, raised his arms, and covered his eyes.
His current haggard state has nothing to do with him fighting a serial killer or being sleepless. Schiller has put too much pressure on him.
Then, Bruce leaned his upper body forward again, put his hands on his elbows, and covered his face with his hands.
He remembered again that when he was in the slums, he had been in the same room with Schiller, and the situation at that time was the same as now.
He had long seen in textbooks that a confined space would make people feel the emotions conveyed by the other party more clearly, and when trapped in a confined space and unable to leave, the pressure would increase exponentially.
Huge pressure combined with an irresistible situation will stimulate the body's self-protection system. Since you can't change the other person, then change yourself. The human mind will automatically lower its own standards to cooperate with the other person in exchange for short-term comfort.
The few words Schiller just said made Bruce's defenses, which had been pushed to the edge, almost collapse.
Because this morning, when he saw Schiller bringing in two plates of very pure vegetable salads, he almost cried with joy.
Bruce's reason is telling him that this is actually not normal at all, but in many cases, reason is not applicable to ordinary people, and it is even more unrealistic to expect him to control a mentally ill person.
Bruce just sat quietly on the sofa, the light and shadow of the floor-to-ceiling window behind him changed, and Bruce appeared next to him one after another.
Some stood in front of the window and punched the serial killer who tried to climb in, some bent down and dragged the knocked-out serial killer out of the door, and some were half-kneeling on the ground to collect the broken glass.
Countless figures were coming and going in the room, but there was only one distinctive figure, holding a wine glass, standing in front of the door in the corner of the room, watching everything quietly, that was Schiller.
Bruce turned his head at an extremely slow speed and saw Schiller's eyes through countless fragments of space and time.
With a "pop", the hallucination in front of him was defeated. When Bruce woke up, he found that he was covered in cold sweat. Schiller, who had just walked out of the lounge, looked down at his watch and walked quickly to
Office door.
Bruce suddenly turned his head to look at the window. The early morning light had long since disappeared, replaced by the bright moonlight. Then he looked up at the clock hanging on the wall of the office. It was now 10:52, which was 8 minutes away from 11 o'clock.
minute.
Schiller's hand was already on the door handle of the office, and the moment his arm turned the door handle with force, the whole office seemed to be condensed by something again.
Bruce stood up unaffected, came behind Schiller and said to him: "You can't go out and kill people, professor."
The door handle did not stop turning. Bruce, who was standing there, shook his head vigorously and said, "No, this won't work."
Then, he strode forward again and reached out to touch Schiller's shoulder. But the next second, the world was spinning, and he found himself lying on the floor. Schiller looked down at him, holding a handful of dipstick in his hand.
A bloody boning knife.
The non-existent pain woke Bruce up. At this time, Schiller had already pushed the door open a small crack.
Bruce stood up and walked quickly behind Schiller. After Schiller opened the door, he did not leave immediately. Instead, he stood outside the door and turned around to look at Bruce behind him, with his closed eyelids and those barren gray eyes.
