Yang An's general rule for dealing with irrational types was to avoid contact whenever possible. He certainly didn't trust a word they said.
When dealing with people like that, out of every ten words they spoke, twelve were probably lies.
Therefore, Yang An was skeptical of the old man's words.
"I don't have any fire. I was lying,"
he said, shaking his head.
His response instantly sent the old man into a rage.
The old man slammed the dead rat in his hand onto the ground and grabbed the iron bars of his cell. From the bloody wounds covering his body, the blood suddenly stood on end like raised hackles, making him look like a hedgehog.
"Lying to me? You dare lie to me? I'm going to kill you!"
The blood on his body solidified into a long, thin needle that shot through the bars of the cell, straight at Yang An.
But before it could reach Yang An, the white substance of the cage—Contaminant Seventy-three—moved first to block the needle, quickly wrapping it up.
