Zhou Xufang snatched the vase and smashed it right over Luo Huaiyu's head.
His vision blurred as he fell to the ground, blood instantly streaming from his head to his neck, fear filling his eyes as he looked at Zhou Xufang, "You, you—"
Zhou Xufang threw the vase away, shattering it into pieces, "If you don't crawl out now, I won't be able to stop myself from killing you."
She wasn't joking; she never joked.
Luo Huaiyu, terrified to the extreme, pressed his hand against his head, felt the blood, and started crawling out frantically, rolling and stumbling like a wriggling worm, completely undignified.
Zhou Xufang ignored him and crouched down to look at Zhou Qingrang, "Mr. Zhou."
Zhou Qingrang, a broadcaster by profession, had a keen sensitivity to sound.
The room was filled with thick smoke, stinging his eyes, he reached out, and in the thick white smoke, he touched a hand, "Is that you, Zhou Xufang?"
