Her pupils shrank.
The hand around her wrist was ice-cold.
For a heartbeat, the cleaner forgot how to breathe. Every horror story she'd ever heard about the institute rushed into her mind at once. She instinctively tried to pull away, but the grip neither tightened nor loosened. It simply held her there. Before she could force a scream from her throat, a calm voice sounded from behind her.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The grip vanished almost instantly.
The cleaner staggered backward in panic, her wrist slipping free as she spun around. The sudden movement sent the music player flying from the pocket of her apron. It clattered across the floor, skidding several feet before coming to a stop beside a pair of polished black shoes.
She froze.
Slowly, her gaze traveled upward.
Doctor Zhao stood quietly in the corridor, his spotless white coat a stark contrast against the decaying surroundings. His expression was as composed as ever, betraying neither surprise nor annoyance.
