Alan's head was stranded in the mucus, and a thin layer of surface looked like floating grease.
The moment the sun shines in, his living characteristics disappear along with the sarcoma, turning into a pile of lifeless dead flesh.
He had no last words, no moans, and no unwilling expression, just staring at the top of his head, like a sunflower chasing light, trying to reflect the sunlight into his pupils.
Yang Yundong walked over silently, bent down, covered the young face of the corpse with his rough hands, and gently closed his white eyes.
Without preaching, without mourning, he stood in silence for a while, looking sideways at the tattooed woman leaning against the door.
At this moment, the right half of her face was in a semi-solid state, dripping flesh-colored mucus downwards.
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