Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the perpetual lights and traffic of the bustling metropolis sketched out a brilliant yet cold skyline.
The clamor and excitement were sealed away by the thick, soundproof glass, leaving only the blurred flow of light and shadow, like another world that had nothing to do with him.
But inside the window, it was deathly still and pitch-black.
Fu Jinsen was sunk deep into the large sofa, his figure almost one with the darkness.
His eyes were bloodshot, a frightening scarlet. His normally impeccable short hair now hung messily over his forehead, exuding a heavy air of desolation.
He couldn't remember how many nights he had spent like this, swallowed by endless silence and longing, unable to sleep.
He even resisted returning to the villa on the mountainside.
It was too big, too empty. Traces of Wanwan were everywhere: the aromatherapy she liked, the novel she'd left on the coffee table, the succulents she'd kept on the balcony...
