Chapter 3 — The Secret Pages of Room Seven

On the second morning as patient Lam, Nhã Vân was called to a private clinic for her first psychological evaluation after admission. She walked in, mentally preparing herself to face a cold, old doctor who only signed paperwork like the one who admitted her the day before. But the person sitting behind the desk was a young man, probably only a few years older than her, tall, with a calm face but unusually sharp eyes compared to the tired looks often seen in the medical team here.

"Hello Miss Lam." He stood up, motioned for her to sit in the chair opposite, his voice gentle but clear. "I am doctor Kỳ Bách Nguyên, in charge of directly monitoring you during your treatment here."

Nhã Vân sat down, clasped her hands together on her lap, trying to maintain the shy, withdrawn appearance of a newly admitted patient. "Hello doctor."

Bách Nguyên flipped through the file in front of him, quickly scanning each line before stopping at the personal-information section, where there was only one word, "Lam"—no last name, no clear hometown, and no relative to contact in an emergency apart from a strange phone number.

"Your profile is quite… simple," he said, his eyes raised to look straight at her, not avoiding her at all. "Less information than most patients I've had."

"I don't want many people to know about me," Nhã Vân replied, her voice was soft but firm. "I'm going through a difficult time. I don't want my family or old friends to know I'm here."

"I get it." Bách Nguyên nodded, not asking more about it, but Nhã Vân noticed that his eyes still stayed on the file for a few more seconds, as if remembering something. "So can you tell me, what's been causing you so much insomnia lately?"

She recounted, almost without too much acting, about the consecutive white nights, about the feeling of helplessness when she could not protect her loved ones, about the vague fear that everything was spinning out of control. She carefully went through every detail that could make the listener think of the case that is causing a stir in public opinion, but the emotions in each sentence were real, so real that even she was surprised because it flowed out more naturally than she thought.

Bách Nguyên listened, occasionally taking brief notes in his notebook, not hastily interrupting like she imagines a busy doctor in a large medical facility would. He asked selective questions, not rushed, to give her space to tell her story, and each question showed that he really listened to every smallest detail, not just completing the formalities.

"Can you tell me if the relative you're worried about is having any problems right now?" He asked, his voice cautious.

Nhã Vân paused for a moment. This was a question she had anticipated, but still found it more difficult to answer than she thought. "That person is in legal trouble. I can't say it clearly." Bách Nguyên did not ask further, just nodded slightly and wrote down a few words. But Nhã Vân caught that in that brief moment, there was a glimpse of something in his eyes — not suspicion about her illness, but a special attention, as if he was trying to piece together disparate pieces of information.

The evaluation ended after nearly forty-five minutes, much longer than what she had heard from other patients about a routine fifteen or twenty minute procedure. When she stood up to leave, Bách Nguyên suddenly spoke up.

"Miss Lam," he called back, when she was standing at the door. "If there is anything unusual during treatment, or if you feel uneasy about anything here, you can come to me directly. No need to go through the nurses."

That sentence made Nhã Vân pause. To an ordinary doctor, it might just be a polite advice. But something in the way he emphasized the phrase "no need to go through nursing" made her feel like he was trying to convey some hidden message, a caution that he wasn't comfortable saying outright.

"Thank you, doctor," she replied, then left the room, filled with new questions.

In the days that followed, she gradually observed many things about Kỳ Bách Nguyên through brief encounters in the hallway, during shared meal times, and in group therapy sessions in which he sometimes assisted. He is different from the rest of the medical team here - those who always move quickly, avoid patients with their eyes, and only speak short, procedural sentences. Bách Nguyên always stops long enough to listen, always remembers the name and a few small details about each patient he is in charge of, and especially, he is always there on time, never late for an appointment even by a few minutes - a rare thing in a facility where many staff appear lethargic and indifferent.

One afternoon, while sitting in the small garden for patients allowed to go out to exercise, Nhã Vân overheard a conversation between Bách Nguyên and a young nurse.

"Mr. Nguyen, why do you keep spending so much time with patients in Ward B? Everyone here just gets the job done, no one forces you to be that careful." The nurse said, her voice somewhat surprised.

"Because they're people, not records," Bách Nguyên replied, his voice calm but decisive. "If it was just to get the job done, I wouldn't have chosen this profession."

That answer, although simple, made Nhã Vân feel something strangely warm in her heart, amidst the darkest days of her life. But at the same time, his obvious difference from the rest of the hospital also made her wonder: why did someone so dedicated and careful choose to work in a place where every process seemed to be designed to go through the motions, so that no one had to pay too much attention to each specific patient?

She began to pay closer attention to his schedule, to the times he disappeared from the main treatment area at unusual hours, to the way he always carried a small old leather-bound notebook with him, never leaving his hand no matter where he went or what he did. One time she saw him standing silently in front of the door of the special quarantine area - where Diệu Kỳ was being held - his eyes fixed on the prohibition sign, his expression hard to read, before turning around and walking quickly when someone appeared at the beginning of the hallway.

That afternoon, during the group therapy session for patients in Ward B, Nhã Vân deliberately sat a little closer to Bách Nguyên, observing how he coordinated the conversation. He did not impose or judge; he simply guided each person to share at a pace they felt comfortable with. When it was the turn of an elderly woman sitting in the corner of the room - whom Nhã Vân had noticed a few days ago because she was always silent and had unusually sharp eyes compared to the other patients - Bách Nguyên just nodded slightly, not forcing her to speak, just gently said: "Miss Tram doesn't need to share today, I'm here."

That name caught Nhã Vân's attention slightly. Ms. Tram. The woman had a look in her eyes that was unlike anyone she had ever met who was actually suffering from a mental illness — a look that was alert, alert, as if she was silently observing everyone around her rather than being immersed in some kind of paranoia.

The treatment session ended, when everyone left the room one by one, Nhã Vân deliberately stayed last, pretending to be struggling to tie her shoe laces. Bách Nguyên was packing up documents when his eyes accidentally met her.

"Is Miss Lam still okay?" He asked, his voice still maintaining its usual professionalism.

"I'm fine," she replied, then as if it was just blurting out, she asked more. "Miss Tram was sitting in the corner of the room just now. Has she... been here long?"

There was a very short moment, almost imperceptible if not paying close attention, when Bách Nguyên stopped. Then he replied, his voice much more cautious. "It's been a while. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing." Nhã Vân shook her head and smiled slightly. "It's just that I think her eyes are... familiar."

She left the treatment room, leaving behind Bách Nguyên who stood silently watching, his eyes full of unpredictable thoughts. And in Nhã Vân's heart, a new question was gradually forming: was this different young doctor hiding something, like her — or was he the only person in this building who truly stood for the truth?

That night, returning to her room, she lay down and reviewed every detail of the day, trying to remember exactly every word Bách Nguyên said, every little gesture he made when mentioning Ms. Tram. She realized one thing: during the first forty-five minutes of the evaluation, he never once asked her about her financial source, about who would pay the hospital fees, about the administrative information that a doctor working in a profit-first environment often had to ask carefully from the beginning to ensure payment records. He only cared about her feelings, about what she was really going through. That, juxtaposed with his unusual devotion to other patients, made her even more curious about the real motive for bringing such a person to work at An Tâm.

She also remembered the image of Bách Nguyên standing silently in front of the special quarantine area the previous afternoon, his eyes glued to the prohibition sign as if trying to see through the thick metal door. If he was just an ordinary doctor, there would be absolutely no reason to stop for so long in an area that was not within his scope of responsibility. Unless, like her, he was looking for something behind that door.

Nhã Vân turned around to look out the window, the hallway light cast a faint streak of light into the room. She did not dare to trust anyone in this building, including that young doctor with strangely sincere eyes. But she knew that, if she wanted to go further in her journey to find the truth, sooner or later she would have to find a way to verify which side Kỳ Bách Nguyên was really on - the side of those who were hiding the secret, or the side of those who were trying to expose it to light.