When Jiang Chenzhou opened his eyes, his fingertips were stuck in the wet soil.
The soil is cool, sticky, and has the grainy texture of cement slag. He didn't move or make a sound. The bitter taste is still stuck in the throat - the aftertaste of arsenic, like rusty iron scratching the back of the tongue. He lowered his head and saw that he was wearing a black leather coat with a crack on his shoulder, revealing purple bruises underneath. On his right wrist, there was a new scar running horizontally, as if it had been scratched by a razor blade and then sewn back.
He pushed himself up and broke a dead branch with his knees. Click.
