Emily Jiang hurried to the People’s Hospital, and she saw Michael Qiu in the corridor on the second floor where the surgeons came and went.
He was sitting on a cross chair by the corridor, his blue-and-white school uniform was stained with Xingwei’s blood, bowed, and seemed to be resting.
Looking closer, he still had a small vocabulary book in his hand.
Emily Jiang sat next to the teenager and reached out to touch the band-aid on the corner of his mouth. It was very light and light, for fear of hurting him.
It was very uncomfortable.
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