"Even if they're beautiful, they're still mine. Just keep your own hands in check so you don't cripple them."
Du Muhan did not look at his own hands at all. His gaze seemed glued to the fair hands beneath the faucet, covered in droplets. He felt that every finger was so perfect, so plump and lustrous.
At that moment, they became the finest works of art in Du Muhan's eyes.
Su Qiao felt a chill run down her spine. She quickly took a disinfectant wipe, dried the water, then stuffed it into her suit pocket before eyeing him warily. "What are you doing? You don't have some bizarre habit of collecting hands, do you?"
This guy was widely known at the station for his strange personality. She had heard that he disliked talking to living people and only liked talking to the dead.
"I'm warning you, don't get any ideas about me. I wasn't serious with you just now. If I had been, I could have knocked you flat in a matter of minutes—the kind where you wouldn't even be able to get back up."
The scene of her pinning him against the wall with her knee pressed into his abdomen flashed through Du Muhan's mind. His ears suddenly reddened a little.
He had not realized it before, but now that he thought back on it, that position really was a little... embarrassing.
"Ahem. I just like beautiful hands."
"Especially hands like these, which can depict something bloody so beautifully, as though they were painting a mesmerizing work of art."
He would have been better off not explaining. After he did, Su Qiao began considering whether she should retreat.
After thinking it over, she decided to leave for now.
They were not familiar with each other yet. Who knew whether