My childhood friend is in her mature, sophisticated form again today. - Chapter 6

At 6:30 a.m. sharp, the loudspeaker in the corridor started playing on time.

It was a piece of soft music, piano music, slow and gentle, like a piece from a meditation album. The volume wasn’t loud, just enough to wake someone from sleep without being too abrupt.

Lin Jiqiu opened her eyes.

She had actually been awake for a while—she had only slept for less than four hours last night, her mind constantly processing information. The camera at the air conditioner vent, the access control system in the corridor, the monitoring room at the end of the first floor… all the details were arranged into a diagram in her mind, with some blanks that she needed to fill in today.

I heard Xiaoyu turning over in bed next door.

Lin Jiqiu turned her head and saw her curled up in the blanket, with only a small section of hair showing. Her breathing was uneven, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, as if she were dreaming, or perhaps she wasn’t asleep at all.

“Get up,” Lin Jiqiu said softly.

Xiaoyu did not respond.

“Xiaoyu”.

The blanket shifted, and Xiaoyu peeked out. Her eyes were a little swollen and her eye sockets were red. She wasn’t crying, but it looked like she had.

“Good morning.” Her voice was hoarse.

“Didn’t sleep well?”

“Hmm.” Xiaoyu sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I’m not used to the bed.”

Lin Jiqiu didn’t ask any further questions. She got up, folded the blankets, and went into the bathroom.

The “Lin Qiu” in the mirror looked somewhat tired—she deliberately hadn’t fully recovered, making herself appear like a normal college student who couldn’t sleep soundly in an unfamiliar environment. Dark circles under her eyes, slightly disheveled hair, and a slightly pale complexion… all looked natural.

After washing up, she changed into a clean white T-shirt and walked out of the bathroom.

Xiaoyu was already sitting by the bed, holding a cell phone—no, it was a “special cell phone” issued by the camp, which could only display the time and receive notifications, but could not make calls or access the internet.

“Are you alright?” Lin Jiqiu asked.

“It’s alright.” Xiaoyu stood up and forced a smile. “Let’s go have breakfast.”

There were more people in the restaurant than last night.

Lin Jiqiu glanced around—besides their new batch of students, there were also “veteran students” from previous batches. Those people seemed quieter, their expressions more peaceful, and there was something in their eyes that… she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It wasn’t emptiness, but rather an excessive calmness, like a stagnant pool.

They were wearing matching white T-shirts with the words “Renewal” printed on the chest. They sat together, eating slowly and barely speaking.

Lin Jiqiu sat down with her tray in hand. Xiaoyu sat opposite her, and Xiaoyi sat next to her.

“Who are those people?” Xiao Yi asked in a low voice, pointing to the white T-shirts.

“It seems to be a student from previous cohorts,” Lin Jiqiu said.

“Why haven’t they left yet? Weren’t they supposed to have a seven-day visit?”

“Perhaps…they stayed behind?”

Xiao Yi frowned but didn’t ask any further questions.

Lin Jiqiu noticed that among the “veteran students” was a girl who looked to be under twenty years old. She had short hair, was thin, and had eyes as empty as a room without windows. Her eating movements were very mechanical—picking up food, putting it in her mouth, chewing, and swallowing, each step seemed to be a pre-programmed routine.

Lin Jiqiu memorized her face.

Cheng Ran’s voice came through the headphones, very softly.

“I can’t find the data for those ‘veteran students’. Their system doesn’t have records of these people.”

Lin Jiqiu took a light breath—indicating that he understood.

“There’s one more thing,” Cheng Ran said. “Last night I intercepted an internal communication. They’re having a ‘special course’ this afternoon, open only to a select group of students. Xiaoyu’s name is on the list, and…”

He paused for a moment.

“And you.”

Lin Jiqiu paused for a moment with his chopsticks, then continued picking up food without any change in expression.

“Special courses?”

“I don’t know. The communication didn’t say what it contained. But it mentioned one word—’stripping’.”

Lin Jiqiu’s fingers tightened slightly for a moment.

“Stripping”.

This word is not very good.

She didn’t answer and continued eating.

The morning class was still meditation.

Teacher Mingyi, dressed in a white robe, sat cross-legged at the front, his voice like a slowly flowing river. The girls closed their eyes and, following his guidance, imagined light, warmth, and their “true selves.”

Lin Jiqiu closed his eyes, but he wasn’t meditating.

She was listening.

Teacher Mingyi’s breathing was more even than yesterday—fifty-eight breaths per minute, slower than normal. His voice had a rhythm, not deliberate, but rather a muscle memory formed through countless practices. This rhythm gradually puts the brain into a theta wave state, relaxing vigilance and making it more receptive to suggestion.

He was using hypnosis techniques.

It’s not the kind of hypnosis where you “fall asleep” like in movies, but a gentler, more subtle approach—gradually influencing a person’s thought patterns through language, sound, and environment.

“Now, imagine you are standing in front of a door.” Teacher Mingyi’s voice was very soft. “This door is old, heavy, and rusty. You have never opened it before. You don’t know what’s behind the door.”

“But today, you can open it.”

Behind the door lies your true self.

Lin Jiqiu sensed someone sobbing softly beside her.

She slightly opened her eyes and saw that Xiaoyu’s shoulders were trembling.

Teacher Mingyi’s voice continued: “Don’t be afraid. No matter what’s behind the door, you are strong enough to face it. Because you are strong enough.”

Xiaoyu’s trembling didn’t stop, but her breathing became a little more even.

Lin Jiqiu closed his eyes.

She needs to know what “special courses” are.

After the class ended, Teacher Mingyi stood up and put his hands together in prayer.

“Thank you all for your trust. The afternoon classes will be conducted in groups. The list has been posted on the bulletin board, so please remember to check it.”

The girls stood up one after another and walked outside.

Lin Jiqiu walked to the bulletin board, where an A4 sheet of paper was posted, outlining the afternoon’s group assignments.

“Special Course Group: Cheng Yu, Lin Qiu, Zhao Xiaoyi, … a total of eight people.”

The others are in the “regular course group”.

Xiao Yi leaned closer, saw her name, and was stunned: “How come I’m in special classes too?”

“Perhaps…” Lin Jiqiu thought for a moment, “because your questionnaire was filled out in a rather unusual way?”

Yesterday, when we registered, everyone filled out a questionnaire. The questions were simple—why are you here? What are you trying to rediscover? What are your expectations for your “true self”?

Lin Jiqiu filled in very ordinary answers: “Want to relax,” “High academic pressure,” “Hope to find direction.”

Xiaoyu didn’t know what she filled in.

But Xiao Yi…

“What did I fill in again?” Xiao Yi scratched her head. “I think I wrote something like ‘I want to know who I am’.”

Lin Jiqiu glanced at her.

“Then it’s not surprising.”

The atmosphere in the restaurant was somewhat awkward during lunchtime.

Lin Jiqiu noticed that the way the “veteran students” looked at them had changed—it wasn’t curiosity, it wasn’t friendliness, but rather a kind of… scrutiny. As if they were looking at something.

She noted this detail down.

“Lin Qiu,” Xiao Yu suddenly spoke.

“Um?”

“Don’t you think… something’s a little strange here?”

Lin Jiqiu looked at her.

There was an unease in Xiaoyu’s eyes, not the unease of being away from home for the first time last night, but a deeper, more intuitive unease.

“What’s strange about it?” Lin Jiqiu asked.

“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Xiaoyu said, looking down at her plate. “It just… doesn’t feel like a typical growth camp.”

“So what do you think it is?”

Xiaoyu remained silent for a few seconds.

“I can’t really explain it. But that Mr. Mingyi… when he was speaking, I felt like I wasn’t myself anymore.”

Lin Jiqiu did not answer.

She picked up her water glass and took a sip.

“Trust your instincts,” she said softly.

Xiaoyu looked at her, seemingly wanting to say something, but ultimately remained silent.

At 2 p.m., the special courses group was taken to the third floor.

Lin Jiqiu had never been to the third floor before. The door at the top of the stairs required a card; the teacher leading the way swiped her card, the door opened, and they went inside.

The corridor on the third floor was narrower and dimmer than the one on the ground floor, with both doors closed and no windows.

At the end of the corridor was a double wooden door with no sign on it.

The teacher leading the way pushed open the door, revealing a circular room. There were no windows, only a few spotlights on the ceiling, the light focused on a chair in the center of the room.

The chair was wooden, had armrests, and looked a bit like the kind you’d find in a dentist’s office.

Several ordinary folding chairs were placed around the room, facing the chair in the center.

“Please sit down,” said the teacher who led the way.

The girls hesitated for a moment, but each found a folding chair and sat down.

Lin Jiqiu chose the seat closest to the edge.

Her gaze swept across the room—there was a camera in the corner, and there might be other equipment behind the spotlights on the ceiling. The walls were made of soft material, like soundproofing cotton.

Soundproofing.

The room was designed to prevent sound from escaping.

Teacher Mingyi walked in through the side door, now dressed in dark clothes instead of the white robe.

His expression changed—not the gentle, compassionate look he had in the morning, but a more…professional one. Like a doctor, like an interrogator, like someone who had seen this kind of scene far too many times.

“Welcome to this special course.” His voice was still so soft and steady. “This course is open to only a select few—those who are truly ready to face themselves.”

He looked around, his gaze lingering on each person’s face for a moment.

“The core of this course is ‘stripping’.”

Lin Jiqiu’s fingers tightened slightly.

“What are we stripping away?” Teacher Mingyi walked to the center of the room and stood next to the chair. “We are stripping away what doesn’t belong to you. The labels society gives you. The expectations your parents have for you. The evaluations your friends give you. Those voices that say ‘you should be this’.”

“Peel them all off.”

“What remains is your true self.”

The room was eerily quiet.

Xiao Yi sat next to Lin Jiqiu, her hands gripping her knees, her knuckles white. Xiao Yu sat on the other side, her head down, her expression unseen.

“Who wants to be the first?” Teacher Mingyi asked with a smile.

No one raised their hand.

“Then…” Teacher Mingyi’s gaze swept over, “Cheng Yu?”

Xiaoyu’s body suddenly stiffened.

“Don’t be afraid,” Teacher Mingyi’s voice was even softer. “It’s just a chat. I’ll ask you a few questions, and you can answer them truthfully.”

Xiaoyu stood up, her steps a little unsteady.

She walked to the chair in the center of the room and sat down, placing her hands on the armrests, her fingers trembling slightly.

Teacher Mingyi moved a chair and sat opposite her, less than a meter away.

He looked into her eyes.

“Cheng Yu”.

“Um……”

“Who are you?”

Xiaoyu opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Think about it slowly,” Teacher Mingyi said gently. “No rush. Who are you?”

“I…I am Cheng Yu.”

Who is Cheng Yu?

“Yes…it’s the name my parents gave me.”

“That’s what others gave you,” Teacher Mingyi said. “It’s not yourself. What I’m asking is—who are you? Put aside your name, put aside your parents, put aside everyone’s definitions of you—who are you?”

Xiaoyu’s lips were trembling.

“I…I don’t know.”

“It’s normal not to know,” Teacher Mingyi leaned forward slightly. “Because you’ve never thought about this question before. But today, you can start thinking about it.”

He reached out and gently placed his hand on the back of Xiaoyu’s hand.

Xiaoyu’s hand jerked back, but she didn’t pull it away.

“What are you afraid of?” Teacher Mingyi asked.

“I… am afraid of the dark.”

“Fear of the dark is instinct. It’s not fear.” Teacher Mingyi’s voice lowered slightly. “I’m asking you—what are you truly afraid of?”

Xiaoyu’s eyes reddened.

“I’m afraid… I’m afraid people won’t like me.”

Who doesn’t like you?

“Many people… classmates, teachers, my parents…”

Why are you afraid they won’t like you?

“Because…if they don’t like me, then I…”

“What do you mean?”

Xiaoyu’s tears fell.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

The room fell silent.

Teacher Mingyi’s lips curled up slightly—the curve was so small that Lin Jiqiu would hardly have noticed it if he hadn’t been observing closely.

“Very good,” he said. “You’ve begun to face yourself.”

Lin Jiqiu tapped his knee lightly with his fingers.

She sneered inwardly.

This is standard psychological manipulation. First, they create anxiety, then offer “understanding” and “acceptance,” making the victim dependent. Next, they tell Xiaoyu “what you should really be like,” and then make her believe that “should be” is the truth.

This is “stripping away”—not stripping away the disguise, but stripping away the self and then implanting a new one.

Cheng Ran’s voice came through the headphones, very low.

“This person’s rhetoric has a template. I’ve seen similar ones on the dark web—brainwashing organizations.”

Lin Jiqiu took a soft breath.

“Xiaoyu’s condition is not right. Her heart rate has been rising and is now over 120.”

Lin Jiqiu frowned slightly.

“You need to intervene at the right time,” Cheng Ran said, “but not now. Too early.”

She knew.

Now is not the time.

When Xiaoyu stood up from the chair, her legs felt a little weak.

Lin Jiqiu stood up and went over to help her.

“I’m fine.” Xiaoyu’s voice was very soft, as if it would dissipate with a gust of wind.

“Sit down and rest for a while.” Lin Jiqiu helped her to sit down on the folding chair.

Xiaoyu lowered her head and didn’t say anything more.

Teacher Mingyi’s gaze fell on Lin Jiqiu.

“Lin Qiu?”

Lin Jiqiu raised her head and looked into his eyes.

Would you like to give it a try?

“good.”

She stood up and walked to the chair in the center of the room to sit down.

Cheng Ran’s voice came through the earpiece: “Your heart rate is normal. Keep it up.”

Lin Jiqiu adjusted her breathing, trying to appear calm and natural—an ordinary college student, a little nervous, but trying to remain composed.

Teacher Mingyi sat opposite her, looking into her eyes.

“Who are you?”

“Lin Qiu.”

Who is Lin Qiu?

“A… college student.”

“That’s your identity,” Teacher Mingyi’s voice was gentle. “What I’m asking is—who are you?”

Lin Jiqiu pretended to think about it for a moment.

“I have no idea.”

“It’s normal not to know,” Teacher Mingyi said. “But have you ever considered that you might not be the person you think you are?”

“What’s the meaning?”

“Your current self—your name, your age, your experiences—these are all things given to you by the outside world.” Teacher Mingyi’s gaze deepened. “If you strip away all of these, what will you have left?”

Lin Jiqiu remained silent for a few seconds.

“You mean… I’m not me?”

“I mean, you might not just be you.”

Lin Jiqiu looked into his eyes.

She could sense it—he was observing her reaction; his pupils were subtly changing, and his breathing was adjusting its rhythm. He was adjusting his words based on her responses.

This is a skilled operator.

“Then what am I?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of bewilderment—just the right amount of bewilderment.

Teacher Mingyi’s lips curled up slightly.

“This is what we’re going to explore together.”

The class lasted for two hours.

Every girl sat in that chair, facing Mr. Mingyi’s gaze and questions. Some cried, some remained silent, and some began to say things they themselves didn’t understand.

Lin Jiqiu had been observing.

She noticed that the “veteran students” were also in the room—they sat in the corner, not saying a word, just watching quietly.

Their eyes are like mirrors.

Or to be more precise, it’s like someone who has lost themselves and is just an empty shell.

After the class ended, the girls left the room without saying a word.

Xiaoyu walked at the front, her steps quick, as if she were fleeing.

Xiao Yi followed behind her, her face pale and her lips tightly pressed together.

Lin Jiqiu walked at the very back.

Cheng Ran’s voice came through the headphones.

“How are you?”

“good.”

“Your heart rate spiked for a moment just now.”

“That was an act.”

“I know,” Cheng Ran said, “but I’ll ask anyway.”

Lin Jiqiu remained silent.

But the corners of her mouth curved slightly.

Back in her room, Xiaoyu lay down on the bed and covered her head with the blanket.

Lin Jiqiu did not disturb her.

She sat on the edge of the bed, took out the notebook, opened it, and wrote:

“I’m not feeling well today. Teacher Mingyi’s question is confusing me. I don’t know who I am.”

She wrote slowly, like a real nineteen-year-old girl thinking and struggling.

Then she closed the notebook and put it in the drawer.

She glanced at the air conditioner vent—the red dot was still there.

They are watching.

Let them see it then.

She yawned, lay down on the bed, and closed her eyes.

“Cheng Ran”.

“Um.”

“Tomorrow night. We can’t wait any longer.”

“……good.”

The sky outside the window gradually darkened.

The second day of the “growth camp” has come to an end.

But for Lin Jiqiu, the real work had only just begun.