Chapter 1940: Doesn’t Seem Like Someone Who Fears Death

"The next operation might not succeed." The elderly white coat sounded a little hopeless. "You’re all new here, you have no idea how many years he and I have been stuck here!"

"How many years?" the young white coat asked.

"Fifteen years. A full fifteen years."

"Then what are you afraid of? It’s been fifteen years, batch after batch has been replaced, and you and he are both still fine, aren’t you?" one of the white coats said hoarsely.

"This time is different. Sir can’t wait any longer. Originally his condition was under control, he could still move his fingers, but now it’s gotten worse, he can’t even move his fingers."

"If he can’t move his fingers, how’s he writing letters?" someone sneered.

"Someone must be ghostwriting for him." The elderly white coat’s voice was raspy. "Sir is alive but it’s like being dead. Nothing below his neck can move, his temper and personality keep getting nastier... I’m scared too. After all, last time there was an old guy just like me—fifteen years in—and they killed him just like that."

"Who killed him?" The young man asked the key question.

Everyone stared at the elderly white coat.

The elderly white coat’s gaze drifted and landed on the middle-aged Mixed blood.

The middle-aged Mixed blood spat. "That old bastard was killed by you. Don’t think you can dump your shit on me!"

"If it wasn’t you, it was him. Either way, neither of you can wash it clean." The young man gave the two of them a contemptuous once-over.

He more or less understood now why the elderly white coat was so desperate to set himself against the middle-aged Mixed blood.

Because if someone has to die next time, it’ll be either him or the middle-aged Mixed blood, and most likely him, since the middle-aged Mixed blood is more valued.

When the time comes, it’ll definitely be the middle-aged Mixed blood who does him in. He’s old; even if he fights back, he probably won’t make it out alive.

The young man lit a cigarette.

Someone walked over. "Can I have one?"

The young white coat glanced at the only woman here, then nodded and handed her a cigarette.

The female in a white coat’s hand trembled as she lit up. She took a drag and suddenly started coughing hard. "Damn, that’s harsh."

"Looks like you don’t smoke?"

"First time."

"Don’t smoke. This stuff’s addictive, and it’s hell to quit."

"Who knows how much longer we’ll live anyway? Might as well try something I haven’t tried."

"Want another?" The young man offered her a second cigarette.

The female in a white coat waved her hand. "Guess I’m not getting hooked on this."

"Can I have one?" Another person came over to bum a smoke.

The young man just tossed the whole handful of cigarettes to him. "Here, split them up among yourselves."

"Thanks."

A few white coats with weaker nerves clustered together to divide up the cigarettes. Some of them were long-time smokers, but right now they were like rookie kids just starting out, taking huge drags and then hacking loudly, because they were dragging too fast.

The frustration bottled up in their chests didn’t get released by the smoke; the smoke filling their lungs just made it even harder to breathe.

Cough after cough, one following another.

They seemed to have found an outlet to vent.

Maybe coughing is a way to vent, more practical than smoking—coughing the suffocation in your chest right out.

"Have you all calmed down?" The young man dragged over a chair and sat, resting his hands on one leg, crossing his legs lazily.

With that posture he didn’t fit in with anyone here at all; he looked far too relaxed.

"You’re not afraid of dying?" the female in a white coat asked.

The young man laughed. "I am."

"You don’t look like someone who’s afraid of death at all. Got any more cigarettes on you?"

"What, you hooked now?"

"Not really. I just feel like trying again."

"Sorry, I’m out."