Dr. Kim tossed in his sleep, the sheets twisting around him like invisible chains. In the depths of his dream, he was no longer the confident psychologist in oversized blazers and Wayfarers.
He was a boy again—small, wide-eyed, and utterly alone in a world that screamed secrets at him.
The playground buzzed with laughter, but to young Kim, it was a cacophony of shadows. He sat on the swing, chains creaking like old bones, as kids swirled around him in a blur of joy.
But their thoughts? Oh, those pierced him like shards of glass.
He pressed his palms to his ears, but it was no use—the voices burrowed inside, painting pictures he didn’t want.
A boy’s secret shame over failing a test: **Dad’s gonna beat me senseless.**
A girl’s hidden terror: **If they knew about the bruises…** Flashes of belts snapping, doors slamming, tears swallowed in silence.
One day, the terror hit too close. Young Kim was arranged to sit next to Mei Mei, the quiet girl from class, her arms crossed tight over fresh bruises. Her thoughts flooded him unbidden:
**Daddy’s mad again tonight. The belt hurts so much. What if he doesn’t stop this time? Please, someone help… but no, he’ll kill me if I tell.**
The fear was a vise, squeezing his chest—he could feel the sting, see the welts blooming like angry flowers. Panicking, he ran to the teacher, blurting it all:
“Mei Mei’s dad hits her! I know it—she’s scared!”
The teacher, eyes wide, called in the social worker. Whispers turned to reports, police knocking on doors.
But Mei Mei denied everything while looking guilty, tears streaming:
“No, I fell playing!”
Her parents raged: “Lies! That weird kid’s making it up—troublemaker!”
Blame crashed down like a wave. The school scolded Kim for “false accusations,” his parents dragged into meetings, humiliated.
“Why can’t you keep quiet?” his father hissed later, face twisted in anger.
“Your fantasies are ruining us all.”
The guilt burned, Mei’s grateful but terrified glance the only solace—her thoughts now a mix of relief and dread:
**He tried… but now it’s worse.**
“Why can’t I be normal?” he whispered to himself, tears stinging. The other kids played tag, their giggles a cruel contrast. He tried to join once, but as he approached, the thoughts exploded.
**Freak. Why’s he always twitching like that? Bet he’s spying on us.**
**Stay away, or you’ll end up crazy too. Mom says he’s bad luck.**
**Useless weirdo. Should just disappear.**
**Ew, not him! He’ll ruin everything.**
**Freak show incoming. Run!**
His family was no refuge. Dinner tables turned into battlegrounds. His mother’s smile hid exhaustion:
**Another outburst? He’s breaking us. What did I do to deserve this?**
His father’s stern gaze masked disappointment:
**Boy’s possessed. Should’ve listened to the shaman.**
One night, in the dream’s cruel twist, it escalated. Young Kim huddled in his room, overhearing his parents’ whispers—or were they thoughts? They blurred now.
“We can’t handle him anymore,” his mother sobbed. “He’s not our son. He’s a monster.”
“Orphanage tomorrow,” his father grunted. “Better for everyone. Let them deal with the freak.”
School blurred in next: hallways like gauntlets, bullies swarming.
“Hey, psycho! Reading my mind? What’s it say—punch the loser?”
Fists flew, but the thoughts hit harder:
Make him bleed. Worthless trash. No one wants you.
The pain swirled, a vortex sucking him under—abandonment, jeers, the endless echo of “crazy.” He screamed, bolting awake in a tangle of sheets.
Gasping, Dr. Kim sat up, the city lights mocking him through the window. The harbor glittered below, a reminder of those old threats. “Not real,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. But the scars lingered, fueling his drive.
“That’s why I fight this. So no kid hears the screams alone.”
He shook it off, slipping into his uniform of cool: crisp shirt, oversized blazer, Ray-Ban Wayfarers perched like a shield. No one knew his gift—the empathy that let him peek into the darkness. It was his secret weapon, hidden behind jokes and charm. Today, Victoria High awaited. Time to stir the pot without spilling his secrets.
The school buzzed like a hive on steroids, students dodging each other in the morning crush.
Whispers followed him: “That’s the guy from the ledge!”
He flashed grins, but inside, he caught the undercurrents—flickers of doubt, buried fears. His power hummed, picking up the negatives like static, but he kept it locked down.
The staff room was a war zone of half-empty coffee mugs and frantic grading. Papers rustled, keyboards clacked. Ms. Wong, the headmistress with her iron bun and sharper gaze, banged a mug on the table.
“Quiet, everyone! We’ve got a new face today. Dr. Kim, our school psychologist. You might’ve heard about his heroics with Jun Wei yesterday. Dr. Kim?”
Scattered claps echoed, eyes curious but wary. Dr. Kim stepped up, leaning on the podium with easy swagger.
“Thanks, Ms. Wong. And hey, team—I’m Dr. Kim, here to unpack the chaos in our heads. No crystal balls or magic tricks, just real talk and tools.”
Snickers rippled, but in the back, Mr. Li crossed his arms, his face a storm cloud.
“Hero? Please. This joker’s gonna waste our time. We’ve got classes to teach, not hug sessions.”
Dr. Kim felt the spike of negativity like a pinprick but played it cool—no reveals here.
“Victoria High juggles 99 headaches like champs—budgets tighter than a miser’s fist, exams piling up like typhoon debris. But mental health? That’s the sneaky bastard lurking in the shadows, ready to trip us all.”
“So, here’s the plan: We’re shaking things up. Compulsory training for teachers and social workers—yeah, I said compulsory, like dodging rain in monsoon season. We’ll drill on spotting the cracks: kids faking smiles while drowning inside, teachers burning out behind closed doors.”
“And counseling? Open doors for everyone—students, staff, even if you’re just the guy mopping the halls with a head full of worries. One-on-ones, group chats, hotlines where you can vent without the spotlight.”
Murmurs spread, some nods, but Mr. Li’s scowl deepened.
Nonsense. We’ve got lesson plans stacked to the ceiling, parents breathing down our necks. Who has time for therapy fluff? Idiot.
The resistance hit Dr. Kim like a wave, but he masked it with a grin, zeroing in on Mr. Li without naming his source.
“Ah, and speaking of real-world fixes—let’s rewind to yesterday’s ledge drama. Mr. Li, you were front and center, shouting about futures and hellfires. Bold move, coach.”
Mr. Li bristled, face reddening. “I was helping! Kid needed a wake-up call!”
Dr. Kim nodded, but his tone sharpened with mock sympathy.
“Sure, sure. But picture this: a mental crisis is like cracking open a chest in surgery. Heart’s right there—exposed, pounding, wires crossed and ready to blow. One wrong poke? Kaboom. Lives shattered.”
“You teachers? You’re the surgeons, supposed to stitch it up. But yelling ‘Think of your grades!’ is like waving a butter knife in the OR—clumsy, messy, leaves scars that fester.”
“Me? I’m here to guide the team, steady the hands. But we don’t train? That heart explodes. Splat on the pavement. No encores.”
The room tensed, whispers buzzing. Mr. Li shot up, chair scraping.
“This is bullshit! We’ve got no time for your fancy analogies. Kids need discipline, not coddling. You’re just another layer of red tape!”
Ms. Wong frowned. “Mr. Li, sit down. We’re discussing—”
But Mr. Li stormed out, door slamming like a gunshot. “Waste of breath. This guy’s trouble.”
Dr. Kim watched him go, a flicker of unease beneath his calm.
Something darker lurked in that anger—hints of secrets, but he pushed it down.
Not now.
The meeting wrapped with uneasy applause, staff filing out in a mix of excitement and doubt. Dr. Kim lingered, sensing the ripples.
Change was coming, but so were storms.
And Mr. Li?
He was brewing one hell of a thundercloud.
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