An Yan woke up, but it was still dark outside.
She turned over, feeling the coldness at her side with her fingertips.
She withdrew her hand, her eyes dry and scratchy.
She buried her head back into the blanket, low sobbing sounds quietly emerging.
She didn't know when, but she fell asleep again.
Meanwhile, Fu Shiyan sat on the sofa in the living room of another villa.
A row of liquor bottles was placed on the coffee table, and he opened each one, gulping it down his throat.
The liquor trailed down his chin into the crisp white collar of his shirt.
Soon, one bottle was empty; looking at the bottle in his hand, he remembered those photos and felt increasingly agitated, fiercely throwing the bottle away.
With a loud crash, the bottle smashed into the television screen, instantly covering it with a web-like crack.
He swept the remaining bottles from the coffee table, crashing them down; liquor spilled over the table and the carpet.
