The biting cold was like countless fine needles, piercing through the thin burlap and drilling into the seams of the bones. He opened his eyes suddenly, and what he saw was not the three-year-old energy-saving lamp in the rental house, but the dusty thatched roof, with a few rotten rafters leaning diagonally, and cobwebs forming an airtight knot in the corners.
"Fuck..." He cursed lowly and tried to push himself up to sit up, but found that his arms were as heavy as lead. With a little exertion, a fishy-sweet taste surged up in the throat, and the saliva he coughed up was mixed with dark red blood.
This is not his body.
Nong Galen was stunned. He remembered that he was taking a nap in the duty room of the company's warehouse, working the night shift at three in the morning, with trucks coming and going on the surveillance screen. He was planning to reschedule the shifts for the veterans in the team next month - the personnel manager of the transportation department It's not easy to be a driver. You have to keep an eye on the driver to prevent him from being lazy on the road, and you also have to prevent the loaders from stealing the goods. Last week, I just caught a guy who stuffed a whole box of drinks into his tricycle. I'm trying to figure out how to fine him according to the rules without forcing him to change jobs.
Then what? It seemed that the air conditioner in the duty room was broken, and the cold wind was pouring into his neck. He casually grabbed a colleague's military coat and put it on, and then... And now.
He looked down at his hands. The hands were rough and dark, with thick knuckles, a thick layer of calluses at the tiger's mouth, and an unhealed gash on the palm with burnt black scabs. These are definitely not his hands that hold pens and type keyboards all year round, and at most help move file boxes.
"Water... Water..." A hoarse voice sounded next to him, breathless.
Nong Galen turned around
