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Li Beicheng yanked out his phone with one hand, dialed 120 and roared into the mouthpiece, "The address is 37 Fuhua Street, Shuirou is type A blood, bring enough blood bags and come over immediately. If anything happens to her, I'm holding you responsible, do you hear me!"
After hanging up, Li Beicheng's gaze suddenly lifted.
Had it not been for Yan Shuirou lying here as pale and still as a wax figure, he would never have known that a person could bleed so much, enough to turn an entire bathtub crimson.
In this moment, he suddenly recalled those memories he had long buried deep in his mind, as vivid as if they were new.
For instance, the first time Yan Shuirou met him, she was only seventeen or eighteen years old.
She couldn't help but steal glances at him repeatedly, yet she had to consider the others present, her face blushing faintly as she hid under the covers, not daring to make a sound for fear of attracting his attention.
