When Liǔ Cháoquè woke up, Saturday was fast approaching. Dragging her exhausted body, she walked over to the windowsill. Outside, flowers bloomed brilliantly, but inside, the room was a stark, unbroken white.
It had been a long time since she was last in a hospital, and catching the scent of disinfectant all at once, she still found herself unaccustomed to it.
Because news of the explosion had made headlines for resulting in zero casualties, she was the sole conscious party still comically—no, *currently*—unconscious, drawing quiet attention from both the media and the police.
Chapter 87