Xu Zhao suddenly opened her eyes.
"Ha... ha... ha..."
Great gasps poured from Xu Zhao's throat, her chest heaving violently as though she had just been dragged out after drowning.
Her silver-white hair hung messily over her shoulders, and her signature glasses sat crookedly on the bridge of her nose. Behind the lenses, her purple pupils had widened a full circle with extreme terror.
Xu Zhao's body trembled instinctively. Her long legs, once neatly wrapped in fine, smooth black stockings, pressed tightly together without her control. The sheen of her stockings flickered faintly beneath the dim lights of her private studio, tiny wrinkles forming at her knees from tension, while the hem of her short skirt rose and fell slightly with her unsteady breaths.
Xu Zhao instinctively raised a hand and touched her neck.
Her fingertips met perfectly uninjured skin.
There was no wound, no blood, not even any pain.
Yet the cold flash that had swept before her eyes moments ago remained vividly clear.
The face of the boy who had appeared before her through a black hole and seized her by the collar was still as clear as if it had been branded onto her retina.
And there was also that giant axe, surrounded by falling cherry blossoms, held against her neck.
Xu Zhao shuddered and hurriedly shook the image from her mind.
Only after her heartbeat calmed a little did Xu Zhao begin examining her surroundings.
The dark blue bow tie on her white uniform jacket was still neatly tied. Her crossed legs were wrapped in black stockings, and her black ankle boots rested on the smooth floor—her clothing had not changed at all.
But the surrounding environment left Xu Zhao stunned.
This place was familiar. Extremely familiar.
She was currently sitting in a chair, and beside