While she was still dazed, Soren pushed the door open, holding a tube of burn ointment. Seeing Linnea awake, he stepped forward, tossed the ointment onto her, and said in a deep voice, “I was too impulsive yesterday, but you also scared Agatha, so let’s write it off. I’ve hired the best plastic surgeon for you. It won’t leave scars.”
He knew Linnea was obsessed with beauty; in the past, even a small cut on her face would have her crying for three days. To find her the best scar-removing ointment, Soren had scoured the city, using his connections to obtain special foreign medication. But now she was covered in burns, her left cheek bandaged, her expression blank.
Seeing her like this, Soren suddenly felt a flicker of fear. He reached out, wanting to touch her, but she trembled reflexively and said, “I was wrong. Don’t touch me! Soren, I was wrong. I deserve to die!”
He froze, anger slowly rising. “Okay, if you still want to act, then do it on your own!” He slammed the door and left, throwing the ointment against the wall so hard it left a deep dent. Whatever miracle ointment he had found never reached Linnea’s face.