When Fu Xing woke up, there was still a mouthful of blood in his throat.
The fishy-sweet smell was so real that he could remember that it was something poured into his lungs after being stabbed through it. He wanted to move, but there was no bone in his body that didn't hurt, especially the hole in his chest, where the cold wind was pouring in.
"Fuck."
He cursed, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper.
Then he heard a whistle.
