The cold blade slapped Su Chen on the face. The unique coldness of metal penetrated into the skin along the pores, arousing fine goosebumps. "Young Master Su, it's the last day." The scar-faced man's voice sounded like it had been ground on sandpaper, rough and filled with the smell of blood. He had half a cheap cigarette in his mouth, and the ashes were shaking, and finally fell on the washed white T-shirt. "If you can't see the money at this time tomorrow, I'll take the money for you." Su Chen leaned against the moldy wall, breathing rapidly. The rental house is less than ten square meters, and the air is filled with the sour smell of rancid instant noodles and the rotten smell of sewers. Dim light bulbs sizzled overhead, threatening to go out at any moment. "Brother Scar, give me a few more days of grace..." "Grace?" Scarface sneered, holding the switchblade in his hand.
