The Billionaire's Debt.

New York City, on the outskirts, at the Fourth People’s Hospital.

High walls stood like a fortress, trapping the sprawling hospital grounds inside a cage of steel and concrete. It was a place where people could enter, but few could ever leave.

Of all the patients sent to this hospital, hardly any were ever picked up. Most spent their entire lives within these walls until the day they died. Why? Because this was a psychiatric asylum. The perimeter walls were built higher than those of a prison, and the security measures meant to stop escapes were just as intense. For any patient brought here, unless their family was willing to take them back, there was zero chance of getting out.

This unique hospital had existed in New York for many, many years. Countless patients were brought in, only to be eventually carried out—entering and leaving marked the beginning and end of a lifetime.

Chloe Bishop had lived here for five years. She had seen scenes like this so often that she had become numb to them. However, she always knew she would get out eventually; it was only a matter of time.

Perhaps God was looking out for her. Chloe Bishop had been a "model patient" for five years—never crying, never making a scene, and always cooperating with every injection and pill. Finally, today, five years later, she was told she had fully recovered and was free to go.

On this winter afternoon, the warm sun hung high in the sky. Golden light spilled gently over Chloe Bishop’s thin silhouette as she stood before the heavy iron gates of the hospital, waiting for the doors that had stolen five years of her freedom to slowly creak open.

Clang... clang...

The wheels of the iron gate ground against the pavement, making a sharp, ear-piercing sound that cut through the quiet afternoon like a bolt of summer lightning.

A pair of feet in canvas shoes stepped out from inside the gate. Looking up from her slender ankles, her straight legs were wrapped in a pair of faded blue jeans. The style was a bit dated, but from the knee to the pocket of the right leg, there was a row of vibrant embroidery. That exquisite, handcrafted detail was likely the most valuable thing about the pants.

Further up was Chloe Bishop’s slender waist, covered by a simple white sweater that looked as pure as her face—a face that was currently pale and devoid of color. The biting north wind swept through her thin frame, tossing her long hair into a mess. Her delicate, refined features were hidden behind the strands of hair, though one could still catch a glimpse of her sickly, pale face, which carried an air of cold, elegant detachment.

Beep! Beep!

Outside the hospital gates, barely ten meters away, a white car was parked. The owner was leaning against the door and, seemingly impatient, reached in to honk the horn twice.

Chloe Bishop walked toward the sound of the