Guan Sixing's alcohol tolerance: two shots of baijiu.
His drunken behavior was okay. Even when he had too much, he didn't make a fuss, and his logical thinking wasn't disrupted. Armed with his phone and charger, he sat on the floor next to an outlet, charging his phone while making calls.
He was persistent, calling until the nineteenth attempt before getting through, and then he kept the line open.
"Youyou."
Jhiang Youyou's phone battery was almost dead: "I'm hanging up."
"Don't hang up."
"I'm sorry."
"Do you want to make up?"
"Youyou."
"I'm sorry."
"Do you want to make up?"
Back and forth, the same few lines were repeated, who knows how many times. The language skills of a science genius were quite basic and deteriorated even further when drunk.
When the call first got through, Jhiang Youyou asked where he was, and he said he was on the floor.
Probably still on the floor, not bothered by the cold.
"The call is dropping."
He insisted, "Don't hang up, don't hang up."
