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... ained where he had knelt since the beginning—his legs folded beneath him, posture rigid, eyes fixed not on the bed, but just beneath it. Even the movement of his gaze felt like too much. To look up, to witness it directly, would be a kind of surrender he wasn't sure he could survive.

And yet, everything was already happening.

He didn't need to see it.

He could hear it.

He could feel it.

The slow creak of the mattress had grown steadier, more rhythmic. Not ...

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Xie Yang has spent many years in the apocalypse and is tired and worn out. Then he transmigrated into a simple and superficial novel about the entertainment circle.

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