The man's forehead veins bulged, his coarse hands clenching the hem of his clothing until his knuckles turned white: "Doctor Zhang, my senior sister had an accident while practicing, she fell from a three-meter-high plum blossom pole and landed on her waist first..."
His voice suddenly choked, his Adam's apple bobbing violently: "Please, come and take a look at her!"
Zhang Zhicheng quickly stepped forward, his fingers, like dried tree bark, gently placed on Wu Qiong's slender wrist.
The consultation room instantly became so quiet that a pin drop could be heard, leaving only Wu Qiong's rapid breathing and the cicadas chirping outside the window.
"This..." Zhang Zhicheng's brow furrowed deeper and deeper, the pulse beneath his fingers was as chaotic as hemp, sometimes as rapid as drumbeats, sometimes so faint it was almost undetectable.
His age-spotted hand trembled slightly, and fine beads of sweat seeped from his forehead.
