Sang Qingran lay in the silent private room, not knowing how much time had passed, feeling very uncomfortable. He didn't dare to dial the two numbers he most wanted to call.
To them, he was an intrusion.
Suddenly, the door of the private room was pushed open, and his senior brother talked incessantly, "Qingran, what you said on the phone was so baffling, and then you hung up. I thought something had happened to you."
However, when he saw Sang Qingran lying so dejectedly on the sofa, he was stunned for a moment.
In his memory, Qingran was always neatly dressed and appeared cold and detached, with no visible emotions, living a highly disciplined life.
Except for seriously ill patients, nothing could disrupt Qingran's routine.
"What's wrong with you?"
"It's nothing." Sang Qingran sat up straight, poured more alcohol into his glass, but this time he didn't gulp it down; instead, he sipped slowly.
His senior brother couldn't stand it anymore and snatched the glass from the table.
