The moment the thought appeared, Zhao Ying froze.
She didn't understand why such a thought had suddenly crossed her mind.
She shook her head, trying to fling the absurd idea from her mind, but it was as if it had taken root and refused to be dislodged.
In that moment of turmoil, she felt a strange sensation from the utility pole beneath her palm.
She looked down and saw that her fingers, resting on the pole, had at some point applied a bit of pressure, their tips sinking deep into the hard concrete surface.
As her fingers tightened slightly.
CRUNCH—!
A soft scraping sound followed, and Zhao Ying's pupils constricted.
She watched, wide-eyed, as the incredibly sturdy concrete utility pole crumbled like a soft pile of sand under her hand, five clear finger imprints easily gouged into its surface.
Concrete debris trickled from between her fingers, falling silently at her feet like grains of sand scattered by the wind.
