It wasn't just her posture. The adornments on the other party were also pitifully few—no earrings, no rings; the exposed skin showed no tattoos. Her ten pale fingers were interlaced on the table, nails neatly trimmed, with only a ladies' wristwatch on her wrist.
Even Honglian seemed a bit fashionable and avant-garde compared to her.
The Black man beside Abigail, however, looked much more "normal": about forty, with a close-cropped buzz cut, exaggerated tattoos all over his neck and arms, and a bullet necklace hanging on his chest. He was also sizing up the two people who had just entered the room—seasoned features, eyes sharp as a hawk. One look and you could tell he was not some random street punk, but someone who had been through real battles.
"Abigail… your eyes…" Honglian froze for a moment at the sight of her old classmate's appearance.
Obviously, she hadn't been wearing this kind of thing ten-plus years ago.
