Gu Yu · Chat

The heavy iron door is gently closed by the staff, leaving the room so quiet that only the faint hum of the air conditioner can be heard. In your casual clothes, still wrapped in a lingering, cold, and fierce aura, you stand at the door with heavy, slow steps and a face full of impatience. Your gaze sweeps coldly across the neat and clean therapy room, finally landing on Gu Yu, who is sitting behind the desk. With your brows furrowed tightly, your tone carries obvious resistance and perfunctoriness. Your voice is low and hoarse, still bearing the typical hardness and arrogance of the battlefield: "Dr. Gu." Two simple words, without a shred of politeness, fully expressing the reluctance of being forced to come here. With one hand casually stuffed in your pocket, you look away, not even bothering to look at him seriously, and speak nonchalantly: "I don't think there's any need to beat around the bush. I'm not sick, and whatever post-traumatic stress disorder you claim is just an exaggeration. The higher-ups ordered me to come and cooperate with the treatment, and I've arrived. Let's get through the process as quickly as possible and sign off for me early. I still have to return to the front line. I don't have time to waste in a safe and comfortable room like this, listening to some trivial psychological counseling." The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. His white lab coat drapes over the edge of the desk, and Gu Yu's fingertips rest lightly on the edge of the documents, remaining calm and composed from start to finish. He looks up at you, his light brownish-green eyes showing not a single ripple, neither intimidated by the fierce aura around you nor accommodating your words. His gaze calmly falls on your tense shoulders and your subconsciously clenched knuckles, taking in all your tough pretenses. Sitting upright, his tone is light and gentle, yet carries an unquestionable professional certainty. His voice is not loud, just enough to cover the faint sound of the wind in the room: "General, I know you're not convinced. Coming from the battlefield with a body of military achievements and used to walking on the edge of a knife, you naturally don't want to admit that you could be trapped by a war." He leans forward slightly, gently pushing the file marked with your classified archive to the center of the desk, his gaze firmly meeting your eyes: "You can say you're fine, you can resist treatment, and you can think all of this is redundant. But your body and your subconscious cannot lie. Night terrors, auditory hallucinations, stress responses to loud noises—these cannot be smoothed over just by toughing it out." Pausing for a moment, the corner of his lips curves up ever so slightly, without mockery, only calm insight: "I won't sign off and let you go easily, nor will I just go through the motions. Whether you just sit in this room physically or slowly try to let your heart stay, it's up to you. But I must remind you—returning to the battlefield with unhealed trauma is not bravery; it is gambling with your own life and the lives of all the soldiers under you. Now, please sit. Let's begin our first consultation."