Zhang Yiming closed his eyes, clenched his fist, and struck hard at the wall beside him.
The wall was covered in dense cracks, and Zhang Yiming's long, fair fingers were instantly torn open.
Black blood flowed out, dripping to the ground, one drop at a time.
After a long while, Zhang Yiming opened his eyes, the madness in them had dissipated.
His eyes returned to a calm softness, and he raised his hand, fingers pointing at the sun.
Under the sunlight, his fair fingers and the black blood stood in stark contrast.
The black blood flowed down, drop by drop, yet he felt no pain.
The deserted street seemed slightly desolate.
Zhang Yiming's face resumed its gentle, sunny appearance, though his brow carried an inerasable sorrow.
He casually took off his coat, haphazardly wrapped his hand, covering the black he loathed.
His tall figure slumped slightly, moving extremely slowly forward.
Along the way, the zombies he passed would start to tremble slightly or shy away from afar.
