His heart softened. He sighed, took Meng Yao’s hand to examine the wound, and gently blew on it. “Let’s go home and apply medicine. Be more careful next time.”
Meng Yao nodded obediently.
Halfway through the orange pancake, Meng Chi felt his eyelids growing heavy. As he reached for a water bowl, he suddenly noticed a strange taste on his tongue – not from the orange pancake, but from a drowsing drug.
“Yao Yao, was this your doing?” Meng Chi fought against his lethargy, standing up to drink clean water that could counteract the drug.
“Brother, don’t go find that little bitch,” Meng Yao said, pressing her soft hand gently on his chest. “We’re the ones who’ll grow old together.”
But Meng Chi could no longer hear her and quickly disappeared into the night.
In the shadows of the roof ridge, Sun Jiacong silently clenched his fist.
“Jiaojiao, do you really have to provoke Meng Chi?” Ruan Ning chased after the chain, trying to reason, “I really have no interest in him at all. Who would like someone who ties them up?”
“Stockholm syndrome,” the standard female voice responded. “You literary youth love to study how complex human nature is.”
“Please, I’m not a literary youth,” Ruan Ning mumbled. “I’m just a vulgar person who wants money and has no interest in human nature.”
“Meng Chi is quite rich,” the voice said excitedly. “He’s made quite a bit from his underworld connections.”
“Forget it, even if you gave me a mountain of gold and chained me up, I wouldn’t want it.”
Jiaojiao, isn’t Zheng Yu also a yandere? Help me find an assistant so I can locate him quickly!”
“Can’t spoil the plot; host will judge for herself after meeting Zheng Yu,” the standard female voice responded. “There is an assistant, though.”
A transparent panel popped up: Long-distance communication: 100 Tyrant Tickets.
“So expensive?” Ruan Ning was shocked. “How many Tyrant Tickets do I have?”
The panel flickered, showing her score: 21 Tyrant Tickets, 16 bottles of nutritional liquid.
Such a poor score? Ruan Ning could hardly believe it.
