The night is deep as ink, darkness looms like a monstrous beast, its jaws wide open, eyeing its prey greedily.
Song Zhiqing looked out at the night through the window, yet felt no hint of fatigue. He wasn't sleepy, nor did he dare to be. The fear was that if he fell asleep, he might never open his eyes again.
Why did he have this premonition?
It was the day's events, and also the look in Song Zhiyuan's eyes before his departure.
In that instant, he seemed like a reaper, casting a glance at him that marked the seal of death, just waiting for the hour to strike to take his remaining life.
From the moment he couldn't step out of this courtyard.
He knew the sickle to harvest his life was already raised.
Song Zhiqing clutched the wheelchair, trembling slightly, meanwhile comforting himself, saying, No, it won't happen. The eldest is always full of feigned kindness and values family bonds; he wouldn't strike with fatal intent.
