She held an umbrella into the night, and he returned with a sword. Three years of dormancy, just to go to an old dream of wearing bright clothes and angry horses.
In the deep alley, the cold rain is weaving.
A masked man in black held a sword in his hand and said in a low voice, "Master, what should I do with this person?"
The woman in red in front of him slowly twitched her lips, her voice as indifferent as a wisp of cold wind in winter: "Kill."
She held an umbrella and stood in the cold rain. The cool breeze carried the drizzle and blew her long ink-like hair. The umbrella was half-covered, but it couldn't hide her charming face. At this moment, her face was expressionless, cold and cold-blooded.
Turning around and disappearing into the endless night, the rain pattered against the oil paper umbrella. The rain was getting heavier, the wind was howling, and a thin layer of mist filled the humid air.
