"What... What is he doing every day?" The moment the words left her mouth, Xin Huohuo regretted asking.
'Aren't I supposed to hate him? Shouldn't I be treating him with indifference?'
'Why, after everything, does my heart still skip a beat when I hear his name? Why do I still care about how he's doing?' She felt just as Zhang Ailing had described—so humbled she might as well be dust.
She loathed herself for it. Fortunately, Xiang Xiaoxue was a woman who had just been subjected to immense psychological torment and humiliation, so her usual insight as a police officer and her keen senses as a demon had completely vanished. She didn't notice anything strange about her friend and just said, "That fiend isn't doing much. He just sits there cross-legged with his eyes closed, day and night. I don't know if he's healing, recuperating, or plotting some nefarious scheme."
