Thank You for Forcing Me to Become a God

"Hey, 'Passenger A', your shoes are dirty, do you know what to do?" A greasy voice sounded above the head, and Lu Ren—an eighteen-year-old boy who lived up to his name and existed like a backdrop—was being poked in the shoulder with the toe of a shoe, not lightly but not hard. Under the dim light of the toilet, water stains snaked on the ground. This is the most remote men's toilet in Jiangcheng No. 1 Middle School, and it is also the "exclusive torture room" set up for Zhang Qiang by a few people. The 99th time. Lu Ren counted silently in his mind, the number was like scratching on the bones with a carving knife. He lowered his head and his thin back was slightly arched, showing the standard posture of a weak person. He had practiced this gesture for three years and had become so proficient that it almost became instinctive.