At this moment, in Gu Jingrui's VVIP hospital room. The man had been working continuously, and now feeling a slight hint of fatigue, Gu Jingrui paused, turned his head, and glanced at Zhou Xingyan, who was sitting on a small stool by the bedside, drawing. He smiled faintly and asked.
"Xingyan, what are you drawing?"
The room was quiet. It was late spring, and even on a high floor, Gu Jingrui could still sense the blossoming flowers and their fragrance. Zhou Xingyan kept her head lowered, the cowlick on her head soft and lovely. Her long hair gently fell, resting against her exquisite face, making her already petite face appear even more delicate and pure. In her fair, petite hands, she held a piece of paper, her pencil continuously sketching. Her other hand softly supported her porcelain-like beautiful face. The sunlight streamed gently inside, and she probably had no idea that she herself was the most beautiful painting in the room.
