in the five-star hotel, in the deserted corridor, Sato was sweating and leaning against the wall. At this time, the phone in his hand sent out the busy tone of Dudu, but his ear still echoed the last sentence at the end of the previous call.

"no matter how unruly my son is, he is also managed by people who can't be Chinese. I'll do it myself."

if the person who utters this sentence is just a father's anger at a son's encounter with this kind of thing, it's nothing. Even ordinary people will be angry at their position.

but what Sato felt trembling was the identity of the person...