Whistle That Comes Late
Editor: Vermillion
As a hotel that was worth a five-stars rating, the lobby was exceptionally spacious and the ceiling was around eight meters high from the floor.
Two years before, when the electricity was still running, the massive prismatic chandelier that hung from the dome glowed like a gigantic rainbow light ball in the air. In such a vast and high-ceilinged area, the human voice that fleeted across from the other end of the lobby sounded like the soft background music in any of the high-end restaurants.
It was also due to this reason that the hair-pricking muffled thump produced when Qing Jiuliu rammed his shoulder towards the marble column did not stir up anything in the air. Nobody, aside from himself, could hear his groan of pain.
The moment he thrust himself toward the pillar, his left hand had missed its target as well. When he turned to look at his shoulder, the face was no longer there.