The motorcyclist removed his helmet, grabbed a handful of hair, and with a stern but handsome face, proceeded to knock on the car window.
"Hey!"
The person inside didn't respond.
He continued knocking, the sound growing louder and louder, almost as if he was trying to dismantle the car.
Fang Jiyin, enduring the pain, rolled down the window. Blood from his forehead trickled into his eyes, blurring his vision as a particularly youthful face invaded his sight. The man stood there, holding a red helmet, looking down in a calm and unhurried manner.
"How did you drive like that?"
It sounded quite weak.
But he hadn't passed out yet.
Yan Cong offered an apology, "Sorry, I'm not good at driving."
His head didn't dip in the slightest, his tone of apology utterly insincere.
Fang Jiyin was in pain all over and had no energy to argue with him. He watched as Yan Cong casually leaned against the hood, calling the police, fiddling with the visor on his helmet while his other hand was idle.
