The box happened to be blown right into his face. Mo Beiyan glanced at it, then tossed it away, furious as he went to kick the sedan beside him. "Fine, Mo Nanjue, don't go to the hospital then. Whoever wants to take care of you can do it. I sure as hell won't!"
"..."
The motorcycle owner scrambled up, practically rolling to his feet, terrified that if the man saw him again he'd get another vicious beating. What, are all the good-looking guys nowadays into brawling in the street?!
God, that's terrifying…
Mo Beiyan walked over to the sedan. After getting in, he tried several times but still couldn't get the front of the car out of the greenery. He slammed his fist hard against the steering wheel. "Fuck, what a piece of junk!"
A wave of inexplicable emotion surged up. Mo Beiyan just felt unbearably stifled. He shoved both hands into his hair; the wine-red, choppy strands were pushed back a few inches, suddenly cool and thin.
He narrowed his eyes and lowered his head.
