When consciousness returned, the first thing Chen Yanluo smelled was the smell of disinfectant.
Wrong.
He moved his fingers and felt that they were rough cotton sheets, not the starched white quilts in hospitals. There was no beeping sound from the ECG monitor, nor was there the ghostly sound of chains mopping the floor.
This isn't right.
He clearly remembered that he had personally given the traitor the Heart-Eating Gu, and watched the guy kneel in front of him with bleeding from all his orifices, begging for mercy. And then—then there was a sharp pain in his back, and someone stabbed him at the critical moment. As the king of the underground world, Chen Yanluo traveled across Southeast Asia for twenty years, and finally fell into the hands of his own people.
He died not unjustly, but he died in a cowardly manner.
"Ahem——"
His throat felt dry and itchy, and he coughed violently. When I opened my eyes, I saw a rental house of less than twenty square meters. The walls were yellow and peeling, and there were map-shaped stains on the ceiling caused by water leakage. The curtains were drawn, letting in a few rays of pale sunlight.
Chen Yanluo sat up, holding on to the edge of the bed, and looked down at his hands——
White.
It was not the healthy wheat color, nor his original bronze skin, but a pale white color that had not been exposed to light all year round. The fingers were slender, with clear joints, but soft and without any strength.
He threw off the quilt, stepped on the ground with his bare feet, and staggered towards the blurry full-length mirror by the window.
The person in the mirror stunned him.
Standing in front of the window, watching this strange city gradually light up in the dusk.
The phone vibrated again. It was a text message from an unknown number:
[Kid, welcome back. ——Old lady]
He frowned
