Poet's gaze lowered to the nurse's work badge, where her name was written: Ling Feiran.
He had seen it before, but he had never deliberately remembered her name. Now, however, he had no choice but to be wary of her.
The Infected had yet to become a real force, and he did not want his plans disrupted by a mere nurse.
However, two nurses had already died in the inpatient department. If a third died and drew the upper management's attention, prompting them to send people to investigate, things would become troublesome.
Poet pondered as he picked up the flute Ling Feiran had given him.
"Feiran, stop crying. I'll play you a tune," he said.
A faintly strange feeling rose in Ling Feiran's heart, because no one had ever called her that. Most people called her Feifei.
But that strange feeling quickly faded. Poet's voice made everything seem perfectly reasonable, even that unfamiliar form of address.
"But isn't it a little inappropriate to play the flute at this hour?" Ling Feiran asked.
"Not at all. I'm a musician." Poet smiled and raised the flute to his lips. "There's only inappropriate music, never an inappropriate time."
Under the night sky, a melodious flute tune began to drift through the air, graceful and ethereal like a clear wind. Rather than seeming noisy, it made the night feel even more tranquil.
As Ling Feiran listened, her eyes slowly fell half-shut, her gaze gradually turning unfocused.
"It sounds so nice," she murmured softly.
Poet lowered the flute. Then, something strange happened—the tune seemed to have taken on a life of its own. Even though Poet had stopped playing, the melody still lingered in the air, drifting on without end.
Poet closed his eyes, an expression of deep enjoyment appearing on his face. "Stop crying