Wang Jian slumped in his office chair, worn out, raising his right hand tiredly to rub the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed.
After so many years of scrapping and struggling, society had taught him this rule: money can solve every problem; money is everything.
But now he suddenly realized, sometimes money isn't worth shit—utterly useless.
As for everything Wang Sheng had done before, Wang Jian felt an overwhelming sense of anger deep in his gut.
To be honest, that bastard was just human garbage; anything written in the Criminal Code, he'd committed. His only value on earth was wasting food.
Wang Jian let out a long sigh. No matter how much of a loser he was, he was still his son—the only blood left by himself and his dead wife.
His eyes wandered down to the fading photograph on the desk—a woman holding her belly, face brimming with happiness.
