About This Novel
He Shuman walked up and down, holding a black high-heeled shoe with her left hand. The wound on her calf was still dripping blood. The wound was mixed with dirty mud, which was painful and itchy. There were probably ants hidden in the mud, and they were carrying her blood and flesh out bit by bit. Her hair hadn't been washed for more than a week, and the newly permed wavy curls had long been tangled together, leaving no trace of her sexy and charming appearance. Not to mention the light pink lace nightgown she was wearing. The soft fabric was splattered with blood. The skirt that originally reached her knees could only cover her butt. The torn lace on the skirt was floating in the wind.
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