TSM Chapter 78

The smile on Mòtuō’s face disappeared completely. He looked at Yǐn Yuè with a fake smile, shook the phone, leaned in and answered the call with a gentle and light voice: “Hello~”

The corners of Yǐn Yuè’s mouth curved upward, he raised his eyebrows slightly and winked, saying nothing…

“The bill!” The simple two words sent a chill down one’s spine.

The service person cleared their throat unnaturally: “The gentleman at table 011 has already paid.”

Yǐn Yuè closed his eyes, a cold smile curving on his lips: “A glass of whisky, no ice.”

“No, I am.” He didn’t take Shí Jiǎnbái seriously either, putting his hands in his pockets, showing no intention of shaking hands.

“Then you should be clear about why we’re here today.” His tone was arrogant, with a bit of a ruffian-like quality.

Mòtuō stepped closer, looking unafraid: “I’m just a painter, who would refuse money that’s offered to them?”

Mòtuō chuckled, his tone arrogant: “That’s a false accusation, I just painted the paintings, that’s all.”

“Describe what the person who asked you to paint looked like?” Shí Jiǎnbái finished eating the lollipop, biting the stick like a hoodlum.

Shí Jiǎnbái casually copied down the address, raised his hand towards Gě Yáng, and Gě Yáng shouted, “Withdraw!” The criminal police then got into the cars one after another.

Mòtuō nodded in return with an ugly fake smile. Shí Jiǎnbái walked out of the gallery, sending a message almost simultaneously with getting into the police car: Withdrew the team.

“Okay, Master.”

……

The man lowered the hood of his sweatshirt, long bangs covering one eye. There was an oval-shaped burn scar on the covered eye. His face was hideous, three parts human, seven parts ghost. There were nail studs under his nose and on his lips, and the engraved black skull patterns were very delicate.

“Is he still alive?” Mòtuō couldn’t wait to open the trash can lid. The woman’s pretty face seemed to satisfy him very much, and his smile didn’t diminish at all.

“Alive.” The man’s hoarse and deep voice came out. He dumped the person out of the trash can, throwing him onto the workbench like he was carrying a chick, with his limbs bound and fixed.

Mòtuō roughly surveyed the various tools on the wall, selecting back and forth, muttering to himself: “Yesterday it was limbs, the day before it was a head, today’s one, how about…”

Without saying a word, he just quietly stared at the oil painting, finished the cold beer in one gulp, crumpled the can into a ball and threw it into the trash can with precision, recalling their tragic past…

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