Lin Mo parked the battery car on the side of the road and looked up at the old community in front of him.
Building No. 23, Unit 1, 602. The order information on the phone screen glowed palely in the night. There were still seven minutes left before the delivery time limit, but he stood at the bottom of the building and couldn't move his legs.
The order was placed at one twenty-three in the morning.
There are only four words in the remarks column: Just put it at the door.
Normally, Lin Mo would be eager to encounter this kind of list - no need to meet anyone, no need to show off his smile, just throw it at the door and take a photo and it's done. But at this moment, he was holding the phone in his hands, feeling chills running down his spine.
Because he had already gone to the sixth floor five minutes ago.
There is a yellowed seal affixed to the door of 602. The seal is stamped with the red seal of the subdistrict office and is dated three years ago. There were several piles of dried flyers piled at the door, including water bill reminders and broadband advertisements. The top one had been wet by the rain and was mushy, and only the word "overdue" could be seen clearly.
No one lives there at all.
Then who ordered the takeaway in his hand?
