The last two words fell especially heavily.
She was already on the brink of losing her patience.
Nan Jiaojiao chuckled, "Miss Song, you're so organized and articulate, impressive. Is it that once you enter the police station, you automatically get some sort of buff? You neither stutter nor stumble, much better than you in the live stream where you couldn't get a word out."
"Pffft—" Chu Yao couldn't hold back, she laughed out loud, quickly covering her mouth, not wishing to ruin the moment of hitting someone's nail.
Song Yuan's head was about to explode, gripping the arms of the wheelchair tightly, her slender bones standing out, seemingly wrapped in thin skin and flesh. The celebrity managed her figure to a pathological level of rigor; she wasn't just thin, but her hands were mere skin and bones, making her face appear too sharp and angular.
Like a knife.
Ready to turn back on herself before hurting someone else.
