Chapter 1169 Professor (Part 41) (Patreon)

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"Thomas Elliott!" Bruce called out his name, he released his grip and threw Roman to the ground, quickly rolled forward, and punched Thomas in the jaw before his feet even touched the ground as he was climbing through the window.

Thomas already had one leg as a prosthetic, he didn't have much time to get used to his prosthetic leg, his toes had just touched the ground when he was struck in the jaw, unable to stabilize his center of gravity, he fell straight backwards.

Bruce stepped forward again, grabbed his hair, dragged him into the room, and then slammed his head against the wall hard.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

When Bruce released his hand, he stood in place and took a deep breath, looking at the bloodied Thomas lying on the ground, he murmured softly, "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 the door, but as soon as he opened the door, he saw the wide-eyed Mrs. Miller.

Bruce hesitated for a moment, wanting to take some measures, but Mrs. Miller immediately took a step back, pointed to the hallway, and said, "Go straight, turn right, the emergency exit, the key is under the doormat."

"Thank you, ma'am."

As Mrs. Miller watched Bruce drag the person out, she adjusted the position of the tea cups on the tray in her hand, Bruce's movements paused for a moment, and he looked up at Mrs. Miller.

Mrs. Miller looked at him and said, "Don't worry, I've seen too many doctors in my life, many of them dissect corpses in their offices, maybe it's because they don't have to follow the rules of the operating room there."

Bruce pursed his lips, ashamed of the slight panic he had just felt in his heart, he dragged Roman to the emergency exit, then went back and dragged the other two in as well.

At this time, Mrs. Miller had already placed the tray on the coffee table, looking at the shattered glass, she walked out while using her finger to point at the window, saying, "I'll call someone to come and fix it."

Bruce shook his head and said to her, "It's best not to... for the time being."

"Bang! Crash!"

Bruce clenched his fists, turning his head to look at the window, another dark figure climbed in through the window.

Bruce lowered his head and took a deep breath, forcefully spreading his hands open, quickly walked to the sofa, picked up the surgical knife he had thrown down earlier, and rushed to the window, stabbing the surgical knife into the back of the hand of the dark figure grabbing the window frame.

Ignoring the agonizing screams in front of him, Bruce pulled out the surgical knife, punched him in the nose, and without watching him fall to the floor below, turned and walked back into the room.

Standing at the door, Mrs. Miller watched his series of actions, and when Bruce turned and came back, she gently shook her head and waved to Harley in the room.

Harley seemed completely unwilling to leave, but as Mrs. Miller's eyebrows rose higher and higher, the young girl could only lower her hand, sigh, and follow Mrs. Miller to leave.

Before leaving, Mrs. Miller only left one sentence: "I'll have the paperboy bring tomorrow's breakfast and newspaper together."

Bruce stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, looking at the mess in the office, and sighed deeply.

But what he didn't know was that this disaster was only the beginning.

In the following week, Bruce didn't even have a chance to leave this office, except for eating and going to the bathroom, he was constantly fighting with the serial killers.

Bruce felt that his understanding of Professor Schiller was still a bit superficial.

At first, he thought that his Professor had him deal with so many terrifying serial killers in the dream, anticipating that one day he would have to face the pathological Schiller.

But now he finds that this is not the case. No matter how abnormal Schiller is, he is only one person. Pride didn't need to let Bruce face the situation of serial killers working together, and since he did, it means that he must have anticipated today's situation long ago.

During the entire week, Bruce used the techniques he had learned in the Dream Realm to deal with the endless stream of serial killers that kept coming.

Bruce felt like he was trapped in a strange space, where there was nothing but serial killers.

But this space did not affect reality, at least not Schiller's reality.

The psychologist was still seeing patients as usual, facing the bloodstained floor, the blood-soaked and haggard Bruce, he acted as if he didn't see anything, still writing medical records, reviewing treatment plans, and making rounds as scheduled.

When the faint morning sunlight filtered through the now-missing window glass and into the room, Schiller, dressed in a deep red suit, sat on the single sofa reading the newspaper, with the breakfast the paperboy had brought in the morning placed in front of him.

And opposite him, Bruce, who had not slept for nearly seven days, was also wolfing down his food.

The space was divided into two halves by the coffee table. On this side, Schiller was dressed in a spotless suit, every button fastened, the tie straight, leisurely turning the pages of the newspaper.

While the Bruce opposite him was haggard to the point of being frightening. After coming back from the slums, Bruce had kept his slightly longer hairstyle, but the fight with the serial killers in the bathroom had soaked his hair, and now it was stuck to his forehead in strands.

With a week's worth of stubble covering his entire chin, combined with his ravenous expression, he looked like a complete vagrant.

Schiller gently closed the newspaper, raised his eyelids and looked at Bruce, asking, "How much longer do you plan to stay here?"

Bruce stopped chewing and stared directly at Schiller, the eyes sunken deep in his brow ridge, and said, "Until you send me an invitation."

"You know, Pride said you're a stubborn one." Schiller shook his head slightly and said, "This obsessive personality may cause you to slide into the abyss, making it impossible for you to rationally judge the situation you are in right now."

Bruce just silently looked at him. Schiller lowered his head and folded the newspaper, saying to himself, "This morning, when I brought over a plate of vegetable salad, you felt a sense of joy."

Schiller looked up and surveyed his office, saying, "In a closed environment, facing someone you cannot resist, the standards will keep dropping, this is a typical Stockholm syndrome. The more obsessive you are, the deeper it will drag you down."

Bruce closed his eyes, lowered his head, and then turned his head away, various illusions blinking in front of his eyes.

It can be said that if it were not for his spirit having been tempered through countless trials and tribulations, he would now have already slid towards another Abyss, as Schiller had said.

Schiller placed the neatly folded newspaper on the coffee table, and the corner of the newspaper crossed the dividing line in the middle of the coffee table, piercing into the other half of the space, just like a knife, stabbing into Bruce's body.

"The banquet will start precisely at 9 o'clock tomorrow evening, and all my friends will be there, and tonight at 11 o'clock, I will go out, you should understand that you cannot stop me, don't waste your effort."

After saying this, Schiller stood up and walked towards the rest room. Bruce let out a breath from his throat, leaning back on the sofa, raising his arm to cover his eyes.

His current haggard state has no relationship with his struggle with a Serial Killer, or his sleepless nights, the pressure Schiller has brought him is too great.

Subsequently, Bruce leaned forward again, supporting himself on his elbows, covering his face with his hands.

He recalled that back in the slums, he had once shared a room with Schiller, and the situation then was no different from the present.

He had long read in textbooks that a confined space would make one more clearly feel the emotions transmitted by the other person, and when trapped in a confined space without the ability to leave, the pressure would multiply.

The immense pressure combined with the inability to resist would activate the body's self-protection system, since one cannot change the other party, one can only change oneself, the mind will automatically lower its own standards to accommodate the other party, in exchange for temporary comfort.

Schiller's previous few words had almost completely shattered the defenses of Bruce's already-cornered heart.

Because this morning, when he saw Schiller bring in two plates of very pure vegetable salad, he almost cried with joy.

Bruce's rationality is telling him that this is actually not normal at all, but often, rationality is not applicable to ordinary people, let alone expecting him to be able to control a mentally ill person.

Bruce sat quietly on the sofa, the light and shadow from the floor-to-ceiling window changing, one Bruce after another appearing beside him.

Some stood in front of the window, punching the Serial Killer trying to climb in, some bent down to drag the knocked-down Serial Killer out of the room, and some knelt on the ground, cleaning up the broken glass.

Countless figures came and went in the room, but only one figure stood out, holding a glass of wine, standing at the door in the corner of the room, quietly watching all this, and that was Schiller.

Bruce turned his head at an extremely slow pace, through the fragments of countless spaces and times, he saw Schiller's eyes.

With a "snap", the illusion in front of him was shattered, and when Bruce regained consciousness, he found himself drenched in cold sweat, and Schiller, who had just walked out of the rest room, looked down at his watch and quickly walked towards the office door.

Bruce suddenly turned his head to look out the window, and the morning light had long since disappeared, replaced by the bright moonlight, then he looked up at the clock hanging on the office wall, and it was now 10:52, with 8 minutes left until 11 o'clock.

Schiller's hand was already on the office door handle, and as his arm exerted force to turn the door handle, the entire office seemed to be solidified by something.

Bruce, unaffected, stood up and went to Schiller's back, saying, "You can't go out and kill someone, Professor."

The door handle did not stop turning, and Bruce, standing in place, shook his head vigorously and said, "No, this won't do."

Then he stepped forward quickly, reaching out to touch Schiller's shoulder, but the next moment, he found himself lying on the floor, with Schiller looking down at him, holding a blood-stained boning knife.

The non-existent pain woke Bruce up, and by then, Schiller had already pushed the door open a crack.

Bruce stood up and quickly walked to Schiller's back, but Schiller, after opening the door, did not immediately leave, but turned around to look at Bruce behind him, his narrowed eyelids and the desolate gray eyes like an ultimatum.

Bruce slightly opened his mouth and said, "You don't need to go out."

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