As the car door opened, the downpour cascaded like thousands of silver threads from the sky, and with a loud crash, a white mist of rain rose, resembling a fleeting Baisha.
Wang Mingming stepped into the water, holding an umbrella, dirt splattering onto his knees.
Han Han put on a thick mask and rubber boots.
"This city…" Shang Qi looked up, "is one of the most severely affected areas by the Black Mist Disease?"
The raised relief tents bore a dim red cross, and the people lining up for porridge wore expressions of numbness. The dilapidated buildings resembled pale tofu blocks, as if belonging to a different world from the bustling city.
"Have mercy, folks, spare some…" As soon as they saw the well-dressed four of Su Ming'an, the gaunt-faced people swarmed over, begging them for money.
"Hey, hey…" Han Han screamed at the sight of their faces.
