Mo Shiche awoke in the warmth of the sunlight.
The first thing to clear was not his body, but his thoughts.
He struggled to open his eyes as the effects of the anesthetics faded, and a tearing pain emanated from his chest.
So he knew the surgery had been a success, and he was still alive.
It shouldn't have been fatal, the bullet hadn't hit his heart, but after all, it was a real bullet, and that always carried a certain degree of risk.
He shifted his gaze slightly.
As expected, he saw the woman lying by the bed, her dark tea-colored curls spread over her shoulders, her back rising and falling slightly, apparently asleep.
Although he had anticipated it, actually seeing her there still stirred an indescribable emotion in his chest.
His breathing subconsciously quickened.
That, in turn, pulled at the freshly stitched wound, "Hiss—"
