Number 91.
This was the number tag Angel had gotten from the vendor.
Angel looked at the mutant drawing lots onstage. The number tag in his hand was No. 55.
Not bad. Thirty-six more people, and it would be his turn.
Everyone simply went up to draw a prize, then stepped down if they did not win. It should not take long before his turn came.
Angel looked around, preparing to find somewhere to wait.
Just then, he saw the vendor waving at him from beneath a flower bed not far away. Beside him stood a young man in a floral shirt.
Though the young man in the floral shirt had deliberately put on sunglasses, Angel still recognized him. He was one of the group at the gates of Eighth Town whom Haman had labeled "punks."
When Angel walked over, the vendor immediately said with a beaming smile, "Sir, there are still over thirty numbers before yours. Why not sit here and wait?"
As he spoke, the vendor looked at the young man in the floral shirt beside him.
The young man promptly stood up, while the vendor gestured for Angel to take the seat.
Angel had thought the vendor had something to discuss. Turns out, he was merely finding him a place to sit... This service really was the full package.
But this seat... Angel's gaze fell on the edge of the flower bed, scrubbed spotlessly clean by the floral-shirted youth's pants.
He fell silent for two seconds, then shook his head. "It won't be long before my turn. I'll pass on sitting for now."
The vendor was about to say something else when another burst of screams erupted from the stage.
This time, however, it was not because the lottery stage had produced another big winner. It came