2. Shock Therapy

The rain did not stop for three days. It beat against the brick wall outside Lin Wei’s window in a steady, percussive rhythm, turning the narrow alley below into a sluice of brown water and discarded syringes. The sound was a mercy—it drowned out the screams from the east wing, where the violent patients were kept, and it gave Lin Wei something to count. Drops per minute. Hours per drip. Minutes until the next chance.

He had learned the rhythm of the ward by the fifth day. Breakfast at 6:30, pills at 7:00, group “therapy” at 8:00—which was really a circle of drooling men and catatonic women staring at a broken television. ECT was scheduled for Tuesdays and Fridays, but emergency sessions could be ordered by any attending physician. His file marked him as “high risk, delusional,” which meant he was dosed with chlorpromazine three times a day, each dose just heavy enough to turn his thoughts into wet cement, but not heavy enough to stop him from plotting.

The plotting was the only thing that kept him human.

He had begun a mental map of the asylum. Green Hill Sanatorium occupied a sprawling estate on the western slope of the island, overlooking the Pearl River estuary. It was built in the 1950s as a leper colony, then converted into a tuberculosis ward, then finally, in the early 1970s, sold to a private consortium that turned it into a for-profit psychiatric facility. The building was a labyrinth of mismatched wings, fire doors that didn't open, and stairwells that led to dead ends. But the basement—the basement was the oldest part, with thick stone walls and a single elevator that required a key card.

The orderly with the lazy eye—his name was Ah Man, Lin Wei learned—appeared every evening at 6:45, just before the night shift change. He slid the dinner tray under the door and muttered a few words, always about gambling: the horse races, the dog tracks, the underground pai gow games in the staff quarters. Ah Man was a junkie, a small-time hustler who had been caught embezzling from a temple charity and given a choice: prison or this job. He had chosen the job, but his hands still trembled for a fix.

On the fourth night of the rain, Lin Wei made his move.

“Ah Man,” he called softly through the observation slit. “I need you to do something for me.”

The orderly’s lazy eye rolled toward the door. “I already told you, I gave you the locker number. That’s my good deed for the year.”

“I need you to get me the shirt. Just the shirt. You can keep whatever else is in the locker—the watch, the belt, the shoes. I don't care. But I need that shirt.”

Ah Man laughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. “And why would I risk my job for a madman’s shirt? If I get caught, I’m out. Back to prison. Maybe worse.”

“Because I can make you rich.”

Lin Wei paused, letting the silence stretch. He had spent the last three days rehearsing this negotiation, calculating the greed threshold of a man like Ah Man. He knew the exact number that would break through.

“There is a safe,” Lin Wei said, “in the office of the club’s manager, Mr. Kwan. The combination is 14-28-36. Inside, there is a brown envelope with the name ‘Ah Man’ written on it. That envelope contains ten thousand patacas and a one-way ticket to Bangkok. It was meant for someone else—a courier who never showed. But I know the combination because I set it myself. If you get me my shirt, I will write you a note with the exact location of the envelope. You can take it tonight, leave tomorrow, and never come back to this stinking hole.”

Ah Man’s breathing changed. Lin Wei could hear the calculation happening behind the slit—the rapid arithmetic of risk versus reward. Ten thousand patacas was a year’s salary for an orderly. Bangkok was a haven for men like him.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Ah Man asked.

“Because I’m a dead man if I stay here,” Lin Wei said. “I have nothing to lose by telling the truth. If I lied, you would have no reason to help me. I need you, Ah Man. You need the money. It’s that simple.”

A long pause. Then: “I’ll think about it.”

He walked away. Lin Wei slumped back against the bed, his heart hammering. The lie was a desperate one—there was no envelope, no combination, no safe. But he had banked on Ah Man’s greed, and greed, as Lin Wei knew better than anyone, was the engine of the world.

The next morning, Dr. Chen came again.

This time, he brought a thick file folder—Lin Wei’s file, judging by the tab. He pulled up the stool and sat down without the usual clipboard. His eyes were tired, rimmed with red, as if he hadn't slept.

“Mr. Lin,” he began, “I have reviewed your admission paperwork, as I promised. There are indeed some irregularities.”

Lin Wei’s heart leaped. “What kind?”

“The signatures of the two certifying psychiatrists—Dr. Fung and a Dr. Leung—do not match their known handwriting on other documents. The dates are backdated by at least three days. And the emergency commitment order was signed by a magistrate who has since retired and cannot be located.”

“So you believe me now?”

Dr. Chen held up a hand. “I said there are irregularities. That does not mean your story is true. It could mean that the hospital administration is sloppy, or that a clerk made a mistake. But it is enough for me to request a formal inquiry—which I have done.”

He leaned forward. “But here is the problem, Mr. Lin. The inquiry will take at least two weeks. During that time, you are still a patient under Section 42. You will continue to receive treatment. And if the inquiry finds no evidence of conspiracy—if your story cannot be corroborated—then you will remain here, possibly for years.”

Lin Wei swallowed. “What can I do to help the inquiry?”

“You can give me something concrete. A name, a document, a person who can verify your identity and your claims. You mentioned a wife in Zhuhai. What is her name?”

“Li Xiaoling. She lives at 42 Lotus Street, Zhuhai. She works as a seamstress at the Red Flag Garment Factory.”

Dr. Chen wrote it down. “I will try to contact her. But you must understand—if she confirms that you are a gambling addict with a history of delusions, then the inquiry will end before it begins.”

Lin Wei felt a cold prickle at the back of his neck. He had not told Dr. Chen about his gambling debt—the small but persistent habit that had driven him to steal petty cash from the Club, just enough to cover his losses. If his wife knew, she would confirm it. And if Dr. Chen found out, he would have all the evidence he needed to lock Lin Wei away forever.

“She might say things,” Lin Wei said carefully, “that are out of context. But she knows I am not insane. She knows I was a good husband, a hard worker. Please—give her my message. Tell her to look for the rice paper in my desk drawer at home. There is a key to a safe-deposit box at the Bank of China. Inside are the copies of the ledger pages.”

It was another lie. There was no safe-deposit box. But Lin Wei needed Dr. Chen to believe there was external evidence, something beyond his own word.

Dr. Chen studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. “I will send a telegram to the Zhuhai police station. They will verify her address and pass on a message. If she responds, I will tell you.”

He stood up. At the door, he turned. “One more thing, Mr. Lin. The orderly who brought you dinner last night—Ah Man—he came to my office this morning and asked for a transfer to the east wing. He said he felt unsafe around you. Do you know why?”

Lin Wei kept his face blank. “I have no idea. Perhaps he is frightened by my delusions.”

Dr. Chen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I see.” He left, closing the door with a soft click.

Lin Wei lay back and stared at the ceiling. Ah Man had gone to Chen—not to report him, but to ask for a transfer. That meant Ah Man was scared. But scared of what? Had he tried to get the shirt and been caught? Or had he simply lost his nerve?

The uncertainty gnawed at him. He had placed his bet on Ah Man’s greed, but greed was a fickle ally. It could turn to fear in an instant.

Two nights later, the rain finally stopped. The air grew thick with the smell of damp plaster and mildew. At 6:45, the observation slit slid open, but instead of Ah Man’s face, Lin Wei saw another orderly—a hulking man with a cauliflower ear and a scar across his nose.

“Your food,” the man grunted, shoving the tray through the slot. He did not linger.

Lin Wei ate the tasteless porridge and counted the minutes. Ah Man had not come. The plan was crumbling.

At 8:00, the night nurse came for his medication. He swallowed the pills, but this time he held one under his tongue, faking the swallow. When she left, he spat it into his palm and pressed it into the crack between the bedframe and the wall. He had been doing this for three nights, accumulating a small stash. He did not know what he would do with them—perhaps dissolve them in water and use them to bribe another orderly—but it was an act of defiance, a tiny claw back from the brink.

At midnight, he heard a soft scratching at his door. He sat up, his pulse racing.

The door creaked open a few inches. A thin hand slipped through, holding a bundle of gray cloth. The hand dropped it on the floor, then withdrew. The door clicked shut.

Lin Wei scrambled off the bed, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum. He grabbed the bundle and brought it to the thin strip of moonlight that filtered through the barred window.

It was his shirt. The same off-white linen shirt he had worn on that fateful night. It was rumpled, stained with sweat and something dark that might have been blood. He ran his fingers along the collar, searching for the tiny lump he had sewn into the hem.

There it was. A small, hard ridge of fabric, no bigger than a fingernail. He tore the seam with his teeth and pulled out a thin strip of rice paper, folded into a square. He unfolded it carefully, holding it up to the moonlight.

The lemon-juice ink was faint, almost illegible, but it was there. Names, amounts, dates. The master ledger’s first page. He read it twice, his eyes burning with exhaustion and adrenaline.

Then he heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, deliberate, many of them.

He stuffed the paper back into the collar and shoved the shirt under his pillow. He lay down, feigning sleep, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure they could hear it.

The door flew open. The overhead light blazed on.

Dr. Chen stood in the doorway, flanked by two orderlies and a man in a dark suit whom Lin Wei had never seen. The man in the suit carried a leather briefcase.

“Mr. Lin,” Dr. Chen said, his voice cold and formal. “I am here to inform you that your wife, Li Xiaoling, has been located. She has given a sworn statement to the Zhuhai police, confirming that you have a long history of paranoia, that you often spoke of conspiracies, and that you once threatened to kill her with a kitchen knife. She has also confirmed that you had a gambling addiction that led you to steal from your employer.”

Lin Wei sat up, his mouth opening and closing. “That’s a lie. She would never—she never said that—”

“I have the telegram here.” Dr. Chen held up a folded piece of paper. “Do you wish to see it?”

Lin Wei snatched it. The words blurred before his eyes, but he forced himself to read them. They were written in official police script, stamped with the seal of the Zhuhai Public Security Bureau. It confirmed exactly what Dr. Chen had said.

His wife had betrayed him. Or someone had gotten to her. Either way, the game had changed.

Dr. Chen stepped closer. “I am required to inform you that, based on this new evidence and the initial irregularities in your admission, a formal review board will convene tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. They will decide whether to extend your involuntary commitment or to recommend a transfer to a higher-security facility.”

The man in the dark suit stepped forward. He opened his briefcase and produced a document. “I am Attorney Zhang, from the Ministry of Civil Affairs. I have been appointed as your legal representative for this review. I strongly advise you to accept the board’s decision without contest.”

Lin Wei looked from Zhang to Chen to the orderlies. The pieces snapped into place. Dr. Chen had not been helping him—he had been setting a trap. The “irregularities” were bait, designed to make Lin Wei hope, to make him talk, to reveal his hand. And Ah Man—Ah Man had been part of it all along. The locker, the shirt—it was all a test to see if Lin Wei still had the evidence.

He had passed the test. And now they knew.

“You knew,” Lin Wei whispered. “You knew about the shirt. You let Ah Man give it to me. You wanted to see if I still had the copy.”

Dr. Chen’s expression did not change. “Mr. Lin, you are delusional. You have just confirmed that by accusing me of a conspiracy. I am a doctor. I am trying to help you. But the board will decide your fate.”

He turned and left. The orderlies followed. Attorney Zhang lingered for a moment, his eyes meeting Lin Wei’s with something that looked like warning.

“Tomorrow,” Zhang said, “say nothing. Agree to everything. It is your only chance.”

Then he was gone. The door slammed shut. The light clicked off.

Lin Wei lay in the darkness, his fingers clutching the rice paper under his pillow. He had the evidence. But evidence was useless if no one believed him. And now the board would meet, and they would hear the fabricated testimony of his wife, and they would send him somewhere worse—maybe even a prison ward where patients were chained to beds and forgotten.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. The chlorpromazine was wearing off, and his thoughts were sharp as broken glass. He thought about the board, about Attorney Zhang’s warning, about Dr. Chen’s smug final words.

And then he thought about the one thing he still had that they hadn’t taken: his voice. He could speak. He could refuse to cooperate. He could make a scene, force the board to listen, force them to prove their case.

But what would that accomplish? They would just sedate him and drag him away.

He opened his eyes and stared at the water stains on the ceiling. They formed a new face tonight—a woman’s face, with hollow eyes and a crooked smile. His wife’s face, but twisted.

He whispered into the dark: “If I can’t prove I’m sane, then I’ll prove I’m more dangerous than they think.”

Under his pillow, the rice paper seemed to pulse with a faint, invisible glow. He had the names. He had the numbers. And tomorrow, when the board convened, he would not plead for mercy.

He would start a fire.