His hair was disheveled, his face was as pale as paper, his lips were bloodless, and his prison uniform was riddled with holes. The blood seeping from his shoulder blades had already condensed into black scabs, which were torn apart by the cold wind and spread again. But his arms were tightened extremely tightly - the three-year-old Tuantuan was sleeping in his arms, her little face was red, her breathing was short and hot, and a trace of dark red blood snaked down from the corner of her lips, dripping on her father's lapel, fainting into a flower of despair.
