Zhao Bin sat quietly on the edge of the sofa, wearing light gray casual clothes that had been washed a little white. The cuffs were slightly rolled up, revealing his smooth wrists, which were incompatible with the valuable European leather sofas and gilt ornaments around him, and looked particularly abrupt. His figure is as tall and straight as a pine tree, his face is handsome and three-dimensional, and there is a sharp aura that has been at the top for a long time hidden between his sword-shaped eyebrows and starry eyes. However, at this moment, that edge has been deliberately restrained, leaving only a faint layer of alienation, as if the quarrels and contempt around him have nothing to do with him.
