Feng Hen had returned to his room.
The dim, yellow light of the room accentuated his frighteningly grim expression.
His brows were tightly furrowed, twisted into a knot.
It turned out that earlier, Yin Zhi had fabricated one excuse after another, holding him there for hours over tea.
Every time he made a move to leave, Yin Zhi would choose the perfect moment to speak up, vividly recounting a story or two about Wen Qian.
Feng Hen listened quietly, his face an impassive mask, but he had crushed several teacups on the table.
He hated that Yin Zhi brought these things up. Hated that Wen Qian had so many past experiences with others that he had never been a part of...
What he hated even more was that when he returned to his room... Wen Qian was nowhere to be found.
Taking a deep breath, Feng Hen sat on the edge of the bed, exuding a forbidding aura. He tried his best to calm down, to banish the thought of burning this place to the ground.
'They were supposed to be the closest.'
