In the factory, accompanied by Jiang Zhaolin's miserable cries, the others around him just watched like they were seeing a show, and no one stepped forward to speak.
Jiang Zhaolin's life before was nothing short of luxurious, where had he ever suffered this kind of pain? He could feel the clothes on his back being burned through by the cigarette butts, hurting so much it made his scalp tingle.
Qing turned his head, threw the cigarette butt aside, loosened his grip on the back of his neck, and then stamped out the cigarette butt with his foot, "Three days."
Jiang Zhaolin was reaching out to rub his back, and when he heard "three days," his face turned pale.
"Three, three days? That's too tight."
"The police are looking for us, and we can't wait too long. Either you help us get the money or you die with us."
"I..."
