The car sped all the way, and Fu Nancheng didn't know how he got her into the operating room.
But he had no choice but to wait.
When Yan Jiu arrived, he saw a pale man, his hands covered in blood, sitting dazedly on a bench in the corridor, like he had lost his soul.
"Third Brother."
Fu Nancheng still didn't react at all, his eyes bloodshot, filled with the image of her small face with tightly closed eyes.
"Zhaoran just went in; she'll be alright." Yan Jiu spoke again, looking towards the direction of the operating room, his gaze more solemn.
He had just heard that the other party was a professional hitman, hired, and came prepared with a large-caliber sniper rifle.
So now, they could only hope that Qiao Mo wasn't doomed!
Yan Jiu didn't sit down but leaned against the wall beside Fu Nancheng, lit a cigarette, held it in his mouth, and then offered one to Fu Nancheng.
Fu Nancheng's gaze fell on the cigarette in front of him. It took several seconds for his eyes to focus.
