I also took the syringe with me.

After Fan Liping left.

In the blink of an eye, Zhang Yiming had another syringe in his hand.

This syringe is thicker than a wrist; drawing one syringe would be enough for Fan Tangtang to have a hearty meal!

The needle of the syringe was pressed against Leng Yebai's pale wrist, just a millimeter away from piercing his blood vessel.

The needle was pushed in little by little.

Zhang Yiming stopped just as they were about to be able to draw blood.

He hesitated.

If Xiaozhu knew, she would not only beat him to death, but also hate him, right?

Zhang Yiming silently put away the syringe, glanced at Leng Yebai on the bed, and stretched out his fist, gesturing twice in front of him.

It was aggressive, but had no lethality whatsoever.

Leng Yebai lay on the bed, motionless, sleeping peacefully.

Zhang Yiming took a deep breath, but it did not alleviate his frustration. He pursed his thin lips and strode out.

Out of sight, out of mind.

That damn man!

I really want to chop him up and feed him to Fan Tangtang without anyone noticing!

In the kitchen, the earthen stove was lit again.

Fan Liping chopped the chicken into pieces and cut the potatoes with a crisp and efficient motion.

The grotesque zombie Xiao Song huddled in front of the stove, his stiff fingers slowly stuffing firewood into it.

His blank stare would occasionally drift off to Fan Liping, and a suspicious liquid would drool from his mouth.

"Get a little angrier!"

Fan Liping glanced at the water that hadn't boiled yet and said something to Little Song the zombie.

Xiao Song's stiff fingers moved back and forth faster, and more liquid dripped from the corner of his mouth.

While Fan Liping was making braised chicken in a clay pot, Grandpa Fan, the zombie, couldn't resist and quietly moved away from the kitchen.

"Dad, we'll have braised chicken in a little while. I'll serve you a bowl as soon as it's done, don't worry!"

Fan Liping grinned at the elderly zombie behind Fan Tangtang.

His dad loves braised chicken in a clay pot. Although his cooking skills aren't great, he still insists on making braised chicken in a clay pot every day and then personally feeds his dad to eat it.

Hopefully, after eating too much braised chicken in a clay pot, Dad will be able to recall scenes from before the apocalypse.

The old zombie glanced at the stove with terror in its dull eyes, then silently turned away.

It's not interested in making the stewed chicken, but in the people who make it.