She looked down at him.
She looked at the face that was so identical to Lin Feng's, completely contorted in pathetic, desperate misery.
The absurdity of the situation finally breached her exhaustion.
"Shen Zechuan," Ji'an wheezed, unable to process the tonal whiplash. "You... you tore a hole in a psychic dimension... and you are currently wiping your nasal fluids on my favorite yellow apron."
"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE APRON!" Zechuan howled, burying his face back into her stomach, crying even harder. "I WILL BUY YOU A MILLION APRONS IF YOU WANT! JUST BREATHE! BREATHE, YOU STUPID CHEF!"
The desperation in his voice sent a pang of pain straight through Ji'an's heart.
'Why does he care so much?' Ji'an's mind reeled, completely overwhelmed. 'He met me just yesterday. I yelled at him. I used him as a footstool. I made him carry four hundred pounds of cast iron. By all logical metrics, he should have let the spider eat me.'
But he hadn't.
