On the blue fluorescent screen in front of me, there is also the 24th version of the revision opinions sent by Party A.
I remember clearly that at that time, I was staring at the message "Change it for the last time" for about three seconds, and suddenly there was a cramp in my chest, as if someone had tightly grasped my heart with their hands. I haven't had time to save the title of the advertisement copy on the computer screen - it was a slogan written for a funeral company, "Let every farewell be filled with warmth."
Oh, now I am the subject of farewell.
The moment I opened my eyes, I smelled the pungent smell of formalin and disinfectant. The smell was so strong that it felt like someone had poured an entire bottle of medical alcohol in my face, burning my entire nasal cavity. I subconsciously wanted to reach out and rub my forehead, but found that the ground where my palms rested was bitingly cold, and it was the kind of white-green tiles commonly found in old hospital corridors.
The corridor is very long, and the end is hidden in darkness. The fluorescent tubes above the head are flashing brightly and dimly, making a buzzing sound of electricity. Five or six people were lying around, and they were all waking up one after another, and some had already begun to scream. The walls on both sides of the corridor are covered with yellowed posters, depicting nurses wearing masks and faceless patients, with the words "Ward 704, Careful Care" written next to them.
"What the hell..." I muttered and sat up with my hands on my hands.
At this moment, a voice suddenly sounded in his head. It's not something I hear through my ears, it's the kind that's poured directly into my brain, like a robot talking against my head.
