When I walked out of Fu’s house, it was already evening.
The setting sun reflected a hint of orange glow on the horizon.
Flynn pushed the car with one hand, put the other in his pocket, and walked forward silently.
The slender figure of the young Qingjun, dressed in a light dusk, is like a character in a scroll.
He walked faster and faster, and his back showed a somewhat depressed sense of coldness.
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