The red light on Imoto's body grew even more intense, casting the dining table as if bathed in a mist of blood.
Yet, the more glaring this eerie red light, the warmer the atmosphere at the table became.
Feng Yuhuai sipped the soup delicately, occasionally lifting her watery eyes, responding to her father's questions in a sickly sweet voice.
Even the son, who recently had grown rebellious, had his eyes behind the glasses returning to their usual obedient and harmless look.
Feng Ju's furrowed brows gradually eased.
The daughter's soft, tender voice melted into the air like honey, and the son's re-domesticated posture was a relief to his heart.
The steamy warmth over the dining table blurred each other's outlines and diluted the unease haunting Feng Ju's heart.
Feng Ju picked a piece of synthetic meat with his chopsticks and placed it in his daughter's bowl, full of gratification and pride:
"Yuhuai, you performed quite well at the Martial Arts competition this time."
