Drip—
Drip—
There was a constant drip of saliva on his shoulder, thick, sticky, and reeking of a fishy stench.
Jiang Che could feel something heavy pressed against his back. He couldn't see it, but its presence was undeniable.
His neck felt unnaturally stiff, as if some entity had wrapped its hands around his throat, gripping him tightly, forbidding Jiang Che from turning his head.
The force was used with eerie skill—enough to restrain but not enough to kill, leaving Jiang Che no way to look back.
His shoulder was already soaked through, the pungent stink lingering beneath his nose.
Jiang Che took a deep breath and forced down the urge to retch. This was no ordinary foul odor; it was a nausea that attacked him on a purely physical level, gut-churning revulsion.
No pain came from behind. Still, relentless curiosity pushed Jiang Che to want to turn, to see what exactly was on his back.
