"Qing, where do all these questions come from?" Zhou Weining poured him a cup of wine and said indifferently, "What difference does it make whether I sleep or not?"
Zhou Qing did not speak for a moment, a chill rushing from his soles to the top of his head...
The drink was far from enjoyable; Zhou Qing drank over a catty of white wine, but when he left Zhou Weining's house, his mind was still very clear. As the cold wind blew, his back was ice-cold...
He reached back to touch it and realized that his back had long been soaked with cold sweat...
Zhou Weining's words were evasive, neither clarifying whether he was really drunk or pretending, nor whether he knew about him and Liu Yaqing, which caused Zhou Qing a lot of pain.
Standing under a streetlight, Zhou Qing lit a cigarette and dialed Liu Yaqing's number on his phone.
"Calling me so late, aren't you afraid of Weining finding out?" The call connected, and Liu Yaqing joked.
