Yang Jian sized up this Wang Yue.
He wasn't old, not even thirty, and though his mismatched gangster-like attire, complemented by a cigar and a scarf, seemed off-key, he exuded a sense of maturity and stability.
It was evident that Wang Yue had also dealt with his fair share of supernatural incidents.
His temperament and intellect had been honed through life-and-death experiences.
Looking at the struggling woman hanging from the street lamp, who was gradually running out of breath, he couldn't help but frown.
"What's the matter? Didn't you also want to kill her just now? I've done you a favor, saved you a bullet—that should be a good thing, right? Or are you blaming me?" Wang Yue noticed Yang Jian's gaze and immediately spoke up.
Yang Jian said, "No, it's just that something occurred to me."
