Lu Zhiyi stood at the top of the business empire, and his thirty-year-old life creed was "efficiency and profit" until he met Jiang Ye.
That young man covered in thorns, in order to protect a box of old books that got wet on a rainy night, held on to her car door. His palm was cut by broken glass and he refused to let go. He only shouted with red eyes: "I apologize! But the books can't be wet!"
She was an indifferent spectator passing through the old city, but in the box of yellowed old books, she found a sketch sandwiched between them - the painting was of the sunset in the demolition area, the weeds on the broken wall, and a young man carrying a drawing board, whose shadow was stretched by the setting sun to be longer than the tall building.
"I bought this painting." She handed over the black card with her usual nonchalant tone.
However, Jiang Ye slapped the card away, and blood mixed with raindrops dripped on the drawing paper: "I won't sell it! I will earn the compensation myself. I will draw whatever you need, and I will draw it until I can pay for it!"
