>I opened my eyes, with a splitting headache, and the monotonous clicking sound of the sewing machine could be heard in my ears.
>The first thing you see is the dim warehouse ceiling, and the air is filled with the choking smell of cotton wool and engine oil.
>Looking down, a pair of hands covered with calluses and scars, with thick knuckles came into view.
>This is not my hand!
>The puddle in the corner reflected an unshaven, angular face - Li Yunlong!
>"Director Li! Urgent call from brigade headquarters!" The correspondent rushed in and shouted.
>My mind buzzed: It's over, I'm going to see the brigade commander who can scold Li Yunlong bloody.
>Trying to imitate the rough voice in memory: "Damn it! Are you urging me to die?"
>I stumbled as I stepped out. The body of this warrior was so unfamiliar.
>The dead trees outside the door are dim with crows, and the new wind is like a knife.
>In the cold winter of 1940, North China was waiting for a fake regiment leader to break in.
