Sleepless through the night.
The hard plank bed, reeking of mothballs and antiseptic, seemed to sprout phantom thorns, each moment threatening to pierce Chen Mo’s marrow. Closing his eyes summoned blinding crimson montages: Li Enci’s silver blade cleaving pink, blood-streaked lamb; the grease-smeared, desiccated bandage fiber clinging to the knife; the spectral image of Zheng Tai in the glass wall—bruised purple-black, bleeding profusely, eyes vacant voids; Hu Qiang’s stony, dangerous profile in the elevator’s reflection; Li Entai sipping wine, his smile concealing daggers as he uttered the threat about a “delicate heart,” each word an ice spike through Chen Mo’s core!
That bloodstained bandage fiber burned like a white-hot ember in his memory. It screamed a silent truth: Zheng Tai’
