“You called me ‘wife’… so I got angry?”
Yan Zhichun lowered her head in thought and surprisingly found the situation unexpectedly reasonable.
At least it was more reasonable than Jiang Ruoxue’s ultimatum of “You have to choose between me and Bai Yang.”
Jiang Ruoxue had always been a carefree person, unlikely to back herself into a corner with just a few words for no reason.
On the other hand, Yan Zhichun was someone who deeply valued boundaries.
If she wanted to be friends with Jiang Ruoxue, she had to establish those boundaries clearly from the start. After all, when she first met Jiang Ruoxue, she had said—
“I prefer to lay out the ugly truths upfront.”
But back then, she hadn’t actually said anything particularly “ugly.” So why had she even brought it up?
“Zhichun… are you okay?” Jiang Ruoxue asked softly. “Sit down first… whatever it is, we can talk it through slowly.”
She pulled Yan Zhichun aside and found a chair for her to sit in.
But Yan Zhichun was clearly overwhelmed by her own memories—her face was expressionless, her whole body numb with dizziness.
“Ruoxue…” She reached out and grabbed Jiang Ruoxue’s wrist, her fingertips icy cold.
“It’s okay…” Jiang Ruoxue reassured her. “Zhichun… there’s no need to be afraid. Everything’s still fine, isn’t it? You’re still here, you haven’t lost your mind. It’s just that there are some things you haven’t figured out yet…”
Yan Zhichun knew it wasn’t that simple. This wasn’t just a matter of “not figuring things out.”
This had happened before—in front of Bai Yang. Fragmented memories had flooded in chaotically.
Bai Yang had once told her that no matter what kind of memories they were, they were all real.
But if a person’s memories contradicted each other and were jumbled in time, were they still real?
“I think my brain is malfunctioning…” Yan Zhichun said. “Ruoxue, you might not understand how panicked I am. The most critical moment is approaching, but not only is the leader of this plan compromised—now I am too. Two unstable people like us together, it’s just…”
“What kind of brain malfunction?” Jiang Ruoxue chuckled dryly. “In this place, we can’t even catch a cold. You think your brain can just break down like that?”
“But…”
Just as the three of them fell silent, someone gently knocked on the door.
Jiang Ruoxue and Zheng Yingxiong turned to look and saw a man in a grimy white coat—like a doctor’s attire—holding two slightly dented cans of food.
“Hope I’m not interrupting…” the man said. “I’m Zhao Haibo, currently one of the deputy leaders of ‘Paradise.’ Brought you some food.”
No one in the room spoke, silently watching as Dr. Zhao placed the two cans on the table.
“Oh… didn’t realize there were three of you here.” Dr. Zhao reached out to pat Zheng Yingxiong’s head, but the boy dodged.
He chuckled awkwardly. “No problem, kid. I’ll bring another can later.”
The room remained quiet.
“Well… if you need any help, just ask,” Dr. Zhao said with an embarrassed smile. “I’ve managed to preserve my memories twice now, so I know quite a bit. If you’re confused about anything, feel free to ask. We’re all in this together, after all.”
Jiang Ruoxue and Yan Zhichun stared at him wordlessly. Even if he had retained memories twice, in this room, even someone who had preserved memories for two years would have to approach things with humility. How could this man be so confident?
Sensing the awkwardness, Dr. Zhao pressed on, trying to fill the silence. “I overheard you mentioning something about a ‘brain malfunction’ earlier… If there’s an issue, maybe I can help. I know a thing or two about brains…”
Jiang Ruoxue studied him for a long moment before scoffing lightly. “If you’re trying to flirt, now’s not the time. And your approach is pretty weak.”
“No, no, no… come on…” Dr. Zhao waved his hands hastily. “This isn’t about flirting. As the deputy leader of this organization, I just want to foster good relations with everyone here…”
“No need,” Yan Zhichun said coldly. “Take the food with you. We’re not members of ‘Paradise,’ and I don’t trust you.”
“Ah… this…” Dr. Zhao forced an awkward smile. “I really mean no harm. If there’s a brain-related issue, you can tell me. I used to be a neurosurgeon.”
“A neurosurgeon…?”
Those four words finally caught Yan Zhichun’s attention. She glanced at Jiang Ruoxue.
“But even if he’s a neurosurgeon, it doesn’t quite fit…” Jiang Ruoxue frowned. “Zhichun’s problem seems more neurological or psychological…”
“Doesn’t hurt to hear him out.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Dr. Zhao pulled up a chair and sat down, maintaining a polite distance of two or three meters from the two women. “Like I said, we’re all part of the same organization. If I can help, I will.”
Yan Zhichun hesitated, then looked to Jiang Ruoxue again—she was always the better judge when it came to social interactions.
To Yan Zhichun, a stranger who insisted on helping for no reason was undeniably suspicious.
“Well… it wouldn’t hurt to ask,” Jiang Ruoxue finally said with a light laugh. “More minds mean more ideas. Maybe this doctor really does have a solution.”
Reluctantly, Yan Zhichun nodded. Then, with some difficulty, she began, “Dr. Zhao, before I explain my situation, I need to clarify—I’m not insane, and I don’t have delusions. But something truly inexplicable is happening to me, and it makes me look like a madwoman.”
“Hmm…?” Dr. Zhao blinked. In all his years of practice, he’d never heard such an introduction. “Miss, I think you’ve misunderstood. I’m a neurosurgeon, not a psychiatrist. I’m only interested in your symptoms—your mental state usually isn’t that relevant to me. And besides… you can’t judge whether someone’s insane based solely on their own self-awareness.”
His professionalism quickly put Yan Zhichun at ease. She nodded. “You’re right.”
She gathered her thoughts and finally voiced the dilemma that had been tormenting her.
“Dr. Zhao, the memories in my mind seem completely different from everyone else’s—yet I remember them so clearly, as if they really happened.” She swallowed hard. “Even in a place filled with ‘echoes,’ I can’t make sense of this.”
“That sounds like the ‘Mandela Effect’…?” Dr. Zhao mused. “Perfectly normal. When I was a kid, I remembered scenes from cartoons I loved, only to realize later that I was the only one who’d seen them. It’s just the brain’s way of self-correcting.”
“The Mandela Effect… no.” Yan Zhichun shook her head. “What you’re describing is just fragmented memories—nothing compared to what’s troubling me.”
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