Wei Zhuojun screamed in agony as he was knocked to the ground.
It was a black backpack.
The youth standing at the door lazily walked in.
Snow-white hands reached out, grasping the bag's strap, the veins and tendons on the back of his hand standing out from the effort. Just by looking at those hands, one could tell everything was perfectly in place.
The young man wore a black hoodie, and having just knocked someone over, he was surprisingly calm. His beautiful fox-like eyes lazily drooped, thick long eyelashes partially concealing clear pupils, and his crimson lips too lazy even to curl into an arc.
He was breathtakingly beautiful and exceptionally stunning, like a vibrant flower blooming amidst snow and ice, exuding gloominess, decadence, and rebelliousness.
The backpack smoothly returned to his back, and he turned his head slightly, his voice soft and languid, a touch of tipsiness without a drop of alcohol, "…What's going on here? Making trouble?"
