The corridor suddenly fell silent, a kind of quiet that had never been experienced before, filled with the stillness of death.
Look at the ground again.
Hu Zirui had become just as he described himself, just as he said he would.
This was a blood-soaked abstract painting of a human body, newly created, the paint still wet, still oozing.
And as the audience who had witnessed this painting.
Not to mention Yin Li, even Xiong Xuan was filled with a dark gleam in his eyes, caught up in an excited tremor, "Too... too... too violent..."
During the stillness.
Click—
The door opened.
A woman, both hands gripping a scalpel, walked out of the ward tremblingly.
The mess on the floor made her cover her mouth on the spot.
She saw Zhao Xin lying in a pool of blood.
She saw the dismembered Hu Zirui.
Lastly, she saw Li Qingming, who was lying on the ground, staring straight at her.
