Shen Lin's house was that typical kind of place that looked mundane from the outside, the architecture still dating back to two or three decades ago, but the interior could be described as splendid.
All the furniture was made of solid wood, and he had even pretended to be a cultured man, placing a big fish tank by the entrance and a Curio shelf next to it, filled with bottles and jars of all sorts. As for what they actually were or their purpose, probably only Shen Lin himself knew.
In any case, he had put up a solid front.
However, his front wasn't looking so good at this moment.
The drunken Shen Lin, his old face flushed black and red, lay sprawled face-down on the gleaming floor of his home while Zhou Wenhui, who had scared Yang Fan and Ye Tong, was using her foot to give Shen Lin's face a massage, rubbing it back and forth with a sizzling sound.
