Xu Qiaoqiao was suddenly at a loss, feeling a sour sensation rising within her heart.
In front of her, appeared the image of an elderly mother.
Lying in a hospital bed, staring at the entrance of the ward, she was simply holding on, waiting for that moment when her son would come home.
If her son did not return, she would stubbornly cling to life, refusing to depart this world.
No one dared to tell her that her son had already passed away.
Because if they did, she would no longer have anything to live for.
The corners of Xu Qiaoqiao's eyes moistened.
The life of an international police officer was hard, too hard.
She lowered her head, and as she thought about what Li Pengcha mentioned last time about the murderer who had killed those four men, she bit her lip, unable to utter a word.
