His gaze fell on his left shoulder, where a patch of tender new skin stood out—a remnant from the early morning convenience store gunfight.
A nine-millimeter bullet had grazed him, tearing open a shallow wound that had now begun to heal.
Zhou Qingfeng stared at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes cold and stern as he muttered to himself, "Nutrition, I need more nutrition to strengthen my body. Otherwise, this frame and these muscles can't sustain my power."
The hunger felt like a raging fire in his stomach, making him feel like he could devour an entire cow in one bite.
He threw his dirty clothes into the washing machine, grabbed a towel hanging on the wall, wrapped it haphazardly around his lower body, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
The kitchen was clean, not a place that saw much cooking. On the dining table sat a twelve-inch roasted meat pizza next to a box of milk.
