The first time Ding Qiao killed someone, there was no rain from the sky, nor did an eerie wind blow. Snowflakes drifted across the night sky from south to north and east to west. It was a rare, beautiful night. He wanted to pull the man's ribs out through his chest and toss them onto the ground, then leisurely light up a Big Front Gate cigarette. Unfortunately, the Glock had no sympathy for him. It gave him only enough time for one cigarette.
He regretted it a little.
There weren't enough cigarettes.
And he'd killed too few people.
But at that moment, he still had no idea that in the bizarre, fog-shrouded future, a hole would open in the barren sky, and thick blood rain and brilliant violence would descend, splashing all over him.
