Chapter 657: Red Sea Fury (Part Seven) (Patreon)

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"This is an opportunity," said Kayla, a CIA female agent, as she maneuvered the steering wheel. "We lost a battle over the Philby list before. If we can obtain evidence of the Queen Family's collusion with the Mexican drug lords this time, we can deliver a satisfactory answer before the next representative assembly."

Sitting in the passenger seat, Lila, an African American, sighed, "The Black Panther movement has already failed. There are no other revolutionary forces left on this land. We are struggling alone, and it's an uphill battle."

"Are you afraid?" Kayla asked. Lila touched his eyebrow and replied, "Maybe. I've been disappointed too many times, and one more disappointment won't make a difference."

"I'm sorry. I can't shake Moscow's decision. The tragedy of the Black Panther Party should never have happened, but..." Kayla shook her head, clearly feeling deeply saddened by the oppression faced by black communists in this country in the past.

Lila remained expressionless and said, "Perhaps we all know that some things have changed, but you're just not willing to acknowledge it. I dare say the person taking the stage in ten days will disappoint you immensely."

"New changes represent new hope, and change is always a good thing, isn't it?" Kayla parked the car by the side of the road, and the two of them stepped out, gazing up at the high-rise building in front of them with the sign that read "Queen Tower."

In a hotel room at the Beverly Hills Hotel in Los Angeles, Hal sighed while looking at Schiller. "You have to find a way to help him. Since we returned from Mexico, Oliver hasn't said a word, hasn't communicated with anyone, and isn't eating. This can't continue."

Hal glanced at the door, and in the living room on the sofa, Arthur sat beside Oliver, trying to comfort him, but to no avail. Oliver just sat there, unresponsive.

"This catatonic state is likely a self-protective response of the brain after experiencing trauma. To break this state, deep treatment is necessary. But are you sure he'll accept such treatment?" Schiller asked.

"Just as you said earlier, it's an unsolvable problem. The Queen Family has been in collaboration with the drug lords for so many years, amassing vast wealth from them, and Oliver grew up nurtured by this wealth. It's irreversible," Schiller also looked at Oliver and said.

"It's all my fault. I shouldn't have let Galardo reveal so much," Hal sighed, but then he shook his head and said, "No, sooner or later, he'll find out. If he returns to the Queen Family now and takes over the family's industry, he'll surely discover these sinful dealings."

"What do you think he's thinking? Is he trying to accept this?" Schiller inquired.

"Because I've found that he has no intention of accepting it, that's why I hope you can talk to him. If this continues, it won't end well for anyone, you and I both know that." Hal placed his hand on Schiller's shoulder and said, "From his behavior so far, Oliver is a good person, otherwise, he wouldn't be feeling so deeply troubled by this. I really hope you can help him, Schiller."

Schiller patted Hal's arm and said before walking out of the bedroom, "I'll do my best."

Once Schiller reached the sofa, Hal took Arthur away. They left the room and went to the restaurant downstairs, leaving Schiller and Oliver alone.

When Schiller sat across from Oliver, Oliver looked up, his eye contact distant and vacant. Then, he slowly lowered his gaze, looking away.

"I know you don't want to see a psychologist right now, and you believe I can't answer your questions," Schiller said, pouring a glass of water for Oliver. "But before that, you should have some water. You might be a bit dehydrated."

Schiller offered the cup to Oliver, but Oliver didn't react. He stared at the clear water in the cup, and with a slight tremor, ripples formed. Oliver's expression turned fearful as he leaned back and started breathing heavily.

"Calm down, Oliver. What you're seeing isn't real; it's an illusion," Schiller said as he quickly stood up and grabbed an umbrella. Just as he turned back, Oliver pushed the coffee table in front of him and fell to the floor, struggling desperately.

He kept punching and shouting, "Get away! Get the hell away! You damn criminals, don't come near me!"

"No... no... I didn't... what you said is right, it's me, it's me who killed you all... the sea, that vast sea, red as blood..."

Oliver began to tremble and tears flowed from his eyes, but he wasn't crying. It was involuntary, and he seemed to have lost control over his own body.

Schiller took a step closer, standing in front of him, and with the handle of the umbrella, he firmly tapped the ground. "Those are all illusions. You're in the hotel, not at sea. Overcome it, don't let it control you."

Veins bulged on Oliver's neck as he continued to curl and relax his body in place, one hand gripping the other wrist, trying to restrain his movements.

Schiller, upon witnessing this situation, sighed and retrieved a vial of sedative medicine from within the Grey Mist, intending to administer it to Oliver.

With no limitations on the use of his special abilities, Schiller transformed directly into Grey Mist, restraining Oliver and administering the sedative. However, Oliver had a strong resistance to it. The conventional sedative had no effect; he remained in a state of extreme agitation.

This situation was not uncommon. Sometimes, patients experiencing a mental breakdown would be in a highly agitated state. In this state, the physical constraints on human muscles were released, giving them extraordinary strength, heightened mental activity, rendering conventional sedatives ineffective. Overdosing could be dangerous.

In such cases, to prevent harm to others or to prevent the patient from injuring themselves, physical sedation methods were employed. This effectively slowed down their movements, but it required a skilled anesthetist to determine the dosage without causing harm.

While Schiller had access to sedatives, he lacked expertise in anesthesia. Using chemical methods might harm Oliver, so he chose an older method—physical sedation...

Seizing the moment while Oliver was trembling on the ground, Schiller raised the umbrella and struck Oliver's neck with precision. A "thud," and Oliver passed out.

Schiller sighed and moved Oliver onto the sofa. After about twenty minutes, Oliver finally regained consciousness. As soon as he woke up, he became agitated again, forcing Schiller to sedate him once more. After repeating this process three times, Oliver finally regained some semblance of sanity.

Schiller set the umbrella aside and took a seat on the opposite sofa, observing Oliver lying on the sofa. "You are by far the most challenging patient I've encountered. You require not only psychological treatment but also physical intervention..."

Oliver opened his mouth, attempting to speak, but his throat had become parched from dehydration, rendering him utterly hoarse. His attempts at speech turned into dry coughs.

"Cough... cough... cough..." Oliver coughed forcefully, eventually transitioning into dry heaves. He propped himself up with his hands on the ground, struggling to return to the sofa, his eyes vacant as he stared at the ceiling.

During this time, he had endured physical torment and mental exhaustion, leaving him extremely weakened.

"Thank you," Oliver finally uttered his first words. "But I don't need comforting. Let me be alone for a while."

"Yes, you don't need comfort, and I don't intend to console you. I'm here to treat you," Schiller replied.

"I don't need treatment," Oliver insisted. "I'm not sick. It's not me who's sick. Thank you, doctor. Please leave."

Schiller picked up the glass of water again and offered it to Oliver. "Have a sip of water first. We can talk, and you can share any questions or concerns you have. I'm a patient listener."

Oliver sat up on the sofa, took the glass, and drank all the water in one gulp, which caused him to cough a few times due to choking. Then he said, "Thank you, I'm fine. I'll be better soon..."

Observing his trembling arms, Schiller also took a sip of water from his glass and continued, "If you don't want to talk, then drink more water and consider having something to eat to regain your strength. You haven't eaten in a long time."

"I'll go later, but for now, I just want to be alone," Oliver displayed signs of extreme withdrawal, responding intermittently but refusing to initiate any conversation. He had no desire to share his thoughts with the psychologist, making this a particularly challenging case.

"Can you tell me about your current doubts? Perhaps I can provide some different answers," Schiller repeatedly probed Oliver, but he remained silent, often lost in thought. Schiller could tell that each time Oliver drifted into his thoughts, it was a troubling sign.

Oliver exhibited all the symptoms of acute stress disorder: dissociation, re-experiencing, panic, emotional numbness, and a refusal to communicate. In such cases, a doctor would typically advise the patient to calm down for a while before proceeding with treatment.

However, Oliver might not have the luxury of time. He had already endured severe physical trauma during his survival on the deserted island, followed by dehydration and starvation. Waiting another two days might lead to shock.

At that point, the extreme physical debilitation could further destabilize his mental state, potentially converting acute stress disorder into permanent psychological trauma, making treatment even more challenging.

After several unsuccessful attempts to engage Oliver in conversation, Schiller sighed deeply and decided to try a different approach.

Schiller stood up, returned to the room, and retrieved his luggage. From it, he took out several books and a file bag. Returning to the sofa, he placed this stack of items heavily on the coffee table with a resounding "thud."

Oliver, across from him, looked somewhat bewildered as Schiller sat back down and placed his hands on the pile of books. He said, "Let me reintroduce myself. I am Schiller Rodriguez, a secret intelligence agent of the Soviet Union's National Security Committee, a KGB agent..."

Schiller elongated his tone, saying, "...a communist."

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Next Chapter>>Chapter 658: Red Sea Fury (Part Eight)