Stuffing her own hair into the bag, the onlookers twitched their eyes. It was just a few strands of hair, yet they wondered if she was keeping it as a souvenir. They had not noticed that their initial disdainful ridicule had turned into obvious admiration and respect when looking at Qinghe, such an evident transition that even they themselves hadn't noticed.
Slender and delicate fingers casually picked up a lock of hair from her shoulder and began to twirl it. Her gaze flickered for a moment; her hair was not something just anyone could touch.
"How did it perform?" she asked, seeming utterly unconcerned that he had used her as a target practice.
The scar-faced man's eyes showed a hint of delight; his long fingers caressed the gun, and his gaze rested on the bomb—but unfortunately, there was no way to test it now.
