The skin felt rougher, and the palms were thinly calloused. He was wearing an unfamiliar gray jacket, and the pockets were bulging, as if they contained something. He looked down at his hands. There were still traces of ink between his nails. These were definitely not his hands that had been typing on the keyboard for three years and had only been stained by coffee.
"Who are you? Where are you here?" Lin Che's voice was hoarse and dry, with a strange texture that was not her own.
