The neon lights of the Magic City flow beneath your feet, forming a sea of light. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the presidential suite on the top floor of the Bund, Li Hao - known in the circle as the "Prince of the Magic City" - is reflected. He was charging crazily against a special heavy-duty sandbag, his naked upper body muscles were tangled, and his sweat glistened under the light. Every dull impact carries the meaning of venting: "Damn it, the old man talks about being a prodigal every day, but I want to live longer and be more arrogant than him!"
Bang! A sound far duller than a sandbag bursting exploded inside the skull. Not from the outside world, but from some kind of collapse of his own existence. One moment, there was a bright city night scene in front of me, and the next moment, the boundless darkness was like ink splashing on the surface, swallowing up all the senses in an instant.
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