"But at least I survived." Yan Sijue narrowed his eyes slightly, "The ones who truly deserve sympathy are those who died."
"But they have nothing to do with me." Mu Yiliang tilted her chin up to look at him, "I only know Yan Sijue."
The man was stunned for a moment, then his expression softened.
He suddenly let out a laugh, cupped her face, and bent down to kiss her.
On this chaotic, filthy street, under the gaze of countless criminals and desperados, the two elegantly dressed people kissed as if no one else were around.
But no one dared to disturb them.
Mu Yiliang suddenly felt her cheeks grow a bit warm.
She had been intimate with this man so many times, always with ease, yet at this moment, for his kiss, she actually felt a bit nervous.
Because she could feel that this kiss was devoid of any desire, clean and warm, like a feather, silently tickling her heart.
