The stillness in the air was vast, and his indifferent voice seemed to be amplified several times over.
Deep, laced with sarcasm.
Huo Jingting's face underwent a drastic change, his hands involuntarily clenching, the veins on the backs of his hands protruding fiercely.
If merely glimpsing a similar silhouette made him uncertain, now, hearing this long-lost voice, he had no doubts.
But how could it be possible?
"Are you wondering in your heart if this is a dream?" he chuckled, "You must find it unbelievable, the man you shot dead with your own hands, how could he appear before you again."
As his words ended, he slowly turned around.
The next second, he suddenly lifted his arm, the gun in his hand pointed straight at Huo Jingting.
Out of years of habit and body's reflexive response, Huo Jingting subconsciously drew his gun and aimed at him too.
Two long arms stayed level, the gun barrels creating an imaginary straight line.
