Wang Jian slumped in his office chair, utterly worn out. He tiredly raised his right hand and, closing his eyes, pinched his philtrum. After so many years of scraping and struggling, society had taught him a simple rule: money could solve any problem. Money was everything.
But now, he suddenly realized that sometimes money wasn't worth a damn—it was utterly useless.
Thinking about everything Wang Sheng had done, Wang Jian felt a furious, gnawing anger deep in his gut.
To be honest, the bastard is just human garbage. He's done everything written in the Criminal Code. His only value on this earth is wasting food.
Wang Jian heaved a long sigh. No matter how much of a good-for-nothing he was, he was still his son—the only bloodline left from him and his deceased wife.
His gaze drifted downward to the faded photograph on his desk. In it, a woman was cradling her belly, her face brimming with happiness.
