Two small bottles of saline dripped slowly.
Serena Stanton closed her eyes in a dizzy haze and rested for a while. When she opened them and looked at the IV bottle, the surface of the liquid seemed frozen in place, perfectly still, not having lessened at all.
She lowered her head to look at the back of her own hand.
Her veins were fine, distinctly distributed beneath the pale skin. Around the needle, a faint bruise had spread.
A moment ago, the nurse had specially reminded her to relax her hand, not to tense up.
Serena leaned her body against the chair back, cautiously positioning the hand with the needle, while her other hand reached into her pocket for her phone.
WeChat was filled with countless unread messages—she didn't want to reply to a single one.
Deep in Serena's bones, a distaste for the world was hidden.
Usually, she was able to put on a mask, handling all sorts of people and matters with practiced ease.
