The first thing Song Bing heard that morning was the judge calling him a danger to society.
The courtroom was packed. Phones were raised. Commentators whispered. Eighteen so-called victims sat in a neat row, each of them wearing the pained, righteous expression of someone who had practiced the story in front of a mirror.
Song Bing stood in the defendant's dock in a plain shirt, wrists cold, expression calm.
A month earlier he had been nobody important, just a veterinary student with a rented storefront clinic, a second-hand consultation table, and a stubborn belief that if a person could save a life, he should. Then the Disease Delivery System had appeared in his life without warning.
Touch a patient, and he could draw out their illness.
Touch a patient again, and he could pass an illness back.
Heal, and his merit would rise.
Harm, and it would fall.
At first he had treated the system like a miracle. He charged one hundred yuan no matter the disease. Late-stage cancer, failing kidneys, wasting blood disorders, defects that left families bankrupt, he did not care. He touched. He absorbed. He cured. In three days, one hundred terminally ill patients walked out of his tiny clinic alive.
And in return, eighteen of them dragged him into court.
"Treating humans without a license is a crime," the prosecutor declared. "The defendant is merely a veterinary student. He ran a clinic, peddled unverified medicine, deceived the public, and profited from their suffering."
A murmur ran through the gallery.
The first witness stood and pointed at Song Bing with a shaking finger. "He sold me fake medicine. Took my money. Made me worse. I only got better when I went to a real hospital."
Song Bing recognized him immediately.
The man had been bedbound with a terminal heart condition when Song Bing touched his wrist to save him. The hospital had given him weeks at most. Song Bing had charged him a hundred yuan and sent him home with a bowl of harmless tonic herbs because appearances mattered. Now the same man stood straight-backed in court and demanded that Song Bing be thrown to jail.
One after another, the witnesses rose.
Each accusation was uglier than the last.
Each lie was more detailed than the one before it.
Then the prosecutor lifted a folder and said, "These evidentiary materials were provided by the defendant's current girlfriend."
The courtroom doors opened. Wu Yashu walked in wearing a pale dress and the kind of face that had once seemed too gentle to belong in this world.
For three years Song Bing had adored her.
He had delivered breakfast to her dormitory every winter morning. Worked double shifts to buy her lipstick, handbags, and branded shoes. Accepted every smile, every soft word, every carefully timed tear as proof that he had been chosen by someone far brighter than himself.
Now she stood on the witness stand and bowed her head with perfect sorrow.
"My name is Wu Yashu. I reported Song Bing because I didn't want him to keep making mistakes. I didn't want more innocent people to be deceived."
Her voice trembled at exactly the right moment.
Then she looked at him, and her eyes softened in a way that used to undo him.
"Song Bing..." she said, "stop struggling. Reform yourself. Even now… I still love you."
The entire courtroom seemed to nod along.
Song Bing almost laughed.
Only he could hear the memory hidden behind her saintly expression: the cold, private voice she had used when no one was listening.
She thought to herself,
"You've chased after me for three years already. One more time won't make a difference. I'm about to marry into a wealthy family. Before I leave, let me squeeze a little more out of you."
The judge asked if the defendant had anything to say.
Song Bing lifted his head.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Let them identify me one by one. If they still insist I harmed them, I'll accept everything."
Across the courtroom, the eighteen witnesses suddenly looked very pleased.
They thought he was cornered.
They had no idea they were standing in front of the one man who remembered every disease he had ever taken from them.