Wu Shuang is someone who doesn't sweat the small stuff, so when faced with her eating habits, Xiao Lin relaxed, lazily leaning back in his chair. One foot was lifted from under thick cotton and placed on the tatami, while his hand, holding a cigarette, tapped against his leg — his whole body practically reclining sideways to the dining table.
Raindrops pattered against the glass with the wind, densely blurring the view. The sky was overcast, and the indoor temperature dropped along with the outdoor cold. Xiao Lin called for a waiter to adjust the room temperature back to twenty degrees before speaking lazily, "The news attributes Zhang Teng's death to fleeing in fear of his crime and being shot in the ensuing counterattack."
"Yeah, that's the official line from the bureau." After wiping her mouth with a damp towel, she served a bowl of soup to Xiao Lin: "You seem like you haven't eaten anything."
"Has the Wang Family been quiet these days?"
"Nothing!"
