Chapter 10

The man slowly wiped the blood from his fingers, a pistol dangling between his index and middle fingers.

The corpse on the ground was Shen Jing’s masterpiece.

He enjoyed the thrill of a close-range headshot.

A gun, or a short knife.

His moves were always swift and clean, never dragging.

Shen Jing’s voice was actually pleasant, husky with a hint of deep magnetism.

If you only looked at his face, who would have thought that in my comic, he was a young, ruthless gang boss who killed without batting an eye?

His crimson eye corners were cold, long lashes lowered, and his dark, almost reddish eyes had abnormally dilated, trembling pupils.

Killing made him feel good.

That’s what he told me after the first time he killed someone in front of me.

Back then, I was blinded by love and followed him into the Northern Myanmar of the comic.

He took my comic manuscript, saying he didn’t like the feeling that I could leave anytime.

But as the days passed, I realized.

My presence hadn’t made Shen Jing restrain himself in the slightest; his bloodlust was as strong as ever.

Shen Jing strode over to the corpse, casually glancing at me.

He lifted his chin towards me, gesturing for me to come over: “Come here.”