The night was as dark as ink, and several black official cars filed out, driving through the iron gates of the Second Prison.
In the backseat of the last car, a figure wrapped in a trench coat lay flat, gently rising and falling with the bumpiness of the vehicle, like a corpse being hurriedly transported away.
As the car reached a deserted intersection, its speed suddenly dropped.
Guan Chong, in the front passenger seat, signaled with his hand, and Jiang Li tacitly stepped on the brake.
The engine roared lowly before going silent, plunging the interior into a brief dead silence.
The trench-coated figure in the back seat slowly sat up, the rustling sound of fabric rubbing echoed.
A pale hand reached out from the sleeve, the fingertips tracing along the jawline, suddenly pinching the cheekbones forcefully, causing the skin to cave in like clay.
Guan Chong's Adam's apple bobbed once.
