After the chef meticulously prepared the dishes, he slowly wiped his hands and stood from a distance, quietly watching the diners taste the food.
The murderer, after committing the crime, hid among the crowd and sneaked back to the crime scene, touching the police tape strung up in front of him.
Li Zhiyuan didn't know which category he belonged to; perhaps he was neither.
Because at present, he was far from being able to extract emotional value from others.
But vaguely, deep within his own heart, he had touched a faint flame, very weak, yet truly burning.
It was like the easiness and engagement he felt when drawing for corpses at home, he was now equally enthused.
He inherited Li Lan's disease, an emotional desert, but even in a desert, cacti could grow.
And his barren emotions could also be influenced by the corpses, producing fluctuations.
Such a discovery was hard to share with others. They would not only find it difficult to understand but also think him mad.
