"..."
Zheng Shichang dared not answer this question.
In a daze, he felt like that little lamb pierced by a stick, roasting over the fire, his skin sizzling from the charcoal, and the fat melting into oil, constantly dripping down.
And Benjamin was the devil wielding the cooking instruments.
Under the devil's temptation, he no longer remembered how many people he had killed?
Ten?
Twenty?
About forty or fifty, perhaps, Zheng Shichang couldn't recall. After all, to company people like them, the lives of those at the bottom were always worthless.
Until he killed a colleague.
His position wasn't high enough to cover it up, so he had no choice but to seek Benjamin's help, pinning the matter on the Cleaner, thus handing leverage to the other side.
"Relax, Mr. Zheng, it's no big deal."
