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It was raining that day. He had just returned from his office, drenched and dead-tired, and was about to open the door of my third-floor apartment when he heard a hoarse voice from behind. However, before he could turn his head in that direction and find out who was there, someone stuck something sharp into his left thigh from behind. He immediately drew back in panic. But by then, it was too late. The object was a sharp-edged knife, and it had done its work; his blue Levi Jeans had gotten drenched with blood, and a searing pain was shooting through his left thigh.
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