Wen Jiaren's face had long since lost its color, her lips trembling and colorless, her eyes dim and lifeless, her entire being as if her soul had been drained, sitting heavily on the ground: "There really is no antidote!"
So this is what despair feels like!
Seeing Wen Jiaren like this, even Zhu Yiyuan, an unrelated middle-aged man, felt heartache.
At this time, no one dared to make a sound, lying there frail, covering their wounds with a pale face.
After a long time, Wen Jiaren stood up and walked step by step towards the door.
Zhu Yiyuan followed her out, "Lady Wen, what should be done with Ma Yi?"
Wen Jiaren only replied with two words, "Up to you."
Walking out the main door, a chilly breeze blew by—it was supposed to be comfortable, yet she felt so very cold, her whole body icy from head to toe.
In the dark night, she walked alone onto the highway, amidst the endless stream of cars, yet her silhouette was so lonely it was heartbreaking.
