The man's voice seemed to come from the depths of Hell—
Song Xueqin slowly turned her head mechanically, only to see the man standing amidst a group of death attendants in a black cloak, his eternally youthful face breathtakingly alarming.
Qiao Yanjing wanted to break free, but as soon as he moved, it felt as if the two people behind him were dislocating his arms.
It wasn't his exaggerated imagination; that's genuinely how they made him feel.
Who are these people? Why did that young man call Song Xueqin his sister?
The man strolled with a cane over to Song Xueqin, raised his hand to caress her face, "Oh! Sister, your face really is quite attractive now! Much better than before, but Brother still prefers that freckled little face of yours—"
Suddenly, his hand reached her chin and grasped it tightly with ferocity, "Brother... really wants to tear off this false face!"
