The streetlamps along the narrow street could only illuminate the area a few meters around. Jia Ming'en, with hands inside the pocket, walked leisurely down the street, a plastic bag hung on his wrist. His feature was obscured by the darkness, unable to be seen clearly.
Night descended and only a few people remained hanging around—the so-called gangsters and tyrants parading around the streets—who gave him some inquiring and intimidating glances when he walked past. But upon seeing his face, they all retreated and didn't dare to make a squeak.
Sounds of televisions, faint chatter and laughter drifted into his ears, yet his expression remained unchanged. It was both nonchalant and indifferent.
