Seeing Jiang An speak so earnestly, Zhang Yean raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth: "Junior, I'll drink this bowl of chicken soup!"
Then, she rolled up her sleeves and threw herself back into the battle, her eyes full of fighting spirit.
The clock's hand quietly slipped from one tick to another, from dawn to dusk, and from evening into deep night.
The field agents were also fully engaged.
Mr Chen trudged heavily, each step seemed weighted down, his police boots caked with mud, making a "squelch, squelch" sound as he walked.
He propped himself up against the doorframe, his chest heaving violently, panting for a while before tremblingly reaching into his pocket for his notebook, his fingers bright red from the cold.
Zhao rubbed his sore shoulder, fatigue written all over his face, and when he took out his phone, the screen's light illuminated the dark circles under his eyes.
