The window was a sliding type, and as Chen An was pushed out, he tried to grab the window edge with his right hand. But the intense pain in his abdomen prevented him from holding on; his fingers scraped a bloodstain on the wall, and his body swayed before tumbling down against the wall.
Bang!
His body hit the ground with a loud thud. This was the second floor, but due to architectural design issues, it was high enough. Chen An's head struck a stone on the lawn, and he curled up in pain; a wave of intense pain shot through his right leg. Trembling, he reached out to touch the artery in his neck.
He felt like he couldn't make it.
Chen An squinted his eyes slightly, blood slid down from the corner of his eyes, and his vision blurred instantly. His left hand, hanging at his side, slowly moved to his pocket, intending to take out his phone to call Mo Nanjue.
He wanted to say, if he died, how many stimulants would someone like Mo Nanjue, who disregards his own life, inject in a day?
