Chapter 8.2

Mo Zimu stood up, his gaze falling on the table below, where there was still a bottle of whiskey. He pointed at it and said, “I want this!”

Ivan glanced at it and smiled. “You’re underage, you can’t drink.”

“At my age, you probably shouldn’t be pinning me to the bed either.”

Ivan seemed to realize he was in the wrong. Scratching his brow, he said, “You’re such a stubborn kid. Fine, just this once. But don’t let me catch you drunk again, or you’ll be in trouble.”

Mo Zimu grabbed the bottle of whiskey, tore off the bedsheet, and walked out. All eyes were on him, first on his face, then dropping to his lower body.

Ivan smiled at the door and said, “See you tomorrow, Seven.”

Mo Zimu didn’t respond. As he lifted his foot to leave, Ivan pulled him back and kissed him hard in front of everyone. “I told you, baby, see you tomorrow.”

Mo Zimu took a deep breath. “I heard you, Ivan darling.”

The last two words came out in Chinese, but Ivan only laughed. In perfect Chinese, he replied, “I like it when you call me that. Yi Wan? Then I’ll call you Xiao Qi.”

Sticks walked over to Ivan, who was still staring at Mo Zimu’s departing back, and asked, “Got him? How’s it feel?”

Ivan took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, saying, “No one can compare to him.”

Mo Zimu returned to his cell, where Tommy was sharpening a new spoon. Without lifting his head, he said, “Mammon is a place full of hidden dragons and crouching tigers… Here, only strength matters.”

Mo Zimu leaned against the bed for a long while before speaking. “Your spoon-flipping skills are impressive. Can you teach me how to do it?”

Tommy lifted his head, a faint smile appearing on his dull face. There was even a hint of kindness in it. “You’re a smart kid.”

—

Teabag finally seemed to be provoked. His anger was so obvious that everyone could see it. His vicious gaze landed on Mo Zimu’s face, and he sneered. “Seven, you’re really something. I’ll make sure you understand that in this place, if I set my sights on someone, there’s no one I can’t have.”

Mo Zimu replied calmly, “I believe in Boss Teabag’s capabilities.”

When it came to words, his ability to deflect was unmatched, completely at odds with his frail appearance.

A few days later, Jude applied to be transferred to B Block and officially became Teabag’s partner.

Tom said to Tommy, “This kid will definitely be a troublemaker in the future.”

Mo Zimu didn’t say anything. Every morning now, he dragged Tom out of bed to practice joint locks. Tom had been pinned to the ground so many times that he finally snapped, “Are you sure you’re not interested in my ass?”

Left with no choice, Mo Zimu switched to practicing with Tommy instead. Even with one hand disabled, Tommy’s speed and strength far surpassed Tom’s. Trying to lock his joints was a struggle. Mo Zimu failed nine times out of ten.

But he kept at it, practicing over and over, hundreds of times.

The person who exchanged for Jude was a tall, chubby guy wearing a gray sleeveless shirt that clung to his upper body, revealing a round belly. The moment he arrived, the already cramped space felt even more suffocating.

Tom groaned and collapsed onto the bed.

The fat guy had a rather neat name, Jack, but everyone preferred calling him Potato or Fatty. When Mo Zimu called him Jack, he usually didn’t realize it was meant for him right away, but when Tom called him Fatty, he’d respond quickly.

Mo Zimu was doing his best to avoid Ivan. The man had sent word several times, asking him to come to the library, but he kept dodging the invitations. Ivan, however, remained patient and composed.

Then one day, Tom returned and told him Ivan had resumed applying for conjugal visits. Many people had seen a beautiful woman in the visiting area.

People started wondering if Ivan had grown tired of Mo Zimu. After all, before this, he had never shown any interest in men. Now, some were getting eager to take their chances, speculating who would be the first to step in.

So the next time they were let out for free time, Mo Zimu had no choice but to step into the library.

Ivan sat at a computer desk, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. His deep-set eyes carried an ever-present smirk, watching Mo Zimu enter without the slightest concern for his hesitant steps. The only thing that mattered was whether Mo Zimu was getting closer.

No matter how far apart two people are, as long as one has enough patience, they will eventually close the distance, just like Ivan and Mo Zimu at the moment.

Ivan lowered his head and kissed Mo Zimu. His kiss was domineering, aggressive, yet practiced, teasing in just the right way.

Mo Zimu had no idea why Ivan insisted on having sex at the computer desk, but at this moment, he had no say in the matter. His pants were pulled down to his ankles. At least Ivan hadn’t forgotten to use lube.
Whether Mo Zimu should be grateful for that, he wasn’t sure.

Compared to the dark prison cells, the sunlit library was an entirely different world. Outside the broken glass windows, seagulls soared freely. The light filtered in, illuminating the fine sweat on Mo Zimu’s forehead. His slender fingers gripped the desk, his body swaying with the force behind him. The library, vast and empty, echoed with muffled, breathless moans. The sounds were low and suppressed, yet they seemed to carry far beyond the shelves.

—

Mo Zimu was a smart student, and the prison was like a black encyclopedia, where many people, for Ivan’s sake, were willing to teach him a little here and there.

It didn’t take long for him to learn how to pick locks, steal things, forge fake IDs, and even perform certain tricks. Ivan always wore an optimistic, satisfied expression as he watched Mo Zimu’s progress.

He seemed to have fully accepted this life. He accepted Ivan’s protection and no longer avoided the sexual demands Ivan made of him.

Ivan treated him well, too. After New Year’s, on Valentine’s Day, he even had a box of chocolates airlifted for Mo Zimu. Each piece was molded into the shape of his own head. When he handed them over, he wore that usual mischievous smirk. “Seven, I hope you have a pleasant day.”

Mo Zimu smiled and accepted, generously offering his roommates a taste of his partner’s head.

Fatty ate the most, greedily stuffing his mouth with chocolate, crunching loudly, and chocolate-colored liquid spraying everywhere. Tom was disgusted, but Mo Zimu seemed to watch with focus.

Mo Zimu also asked someone to move some of the purple flowers from the pile of weeds outside the playground to the field inside.

No one understood his actions, but since Ivan had given his approval, no one dared to interfere. Only Teabag, one day, walked over with his pants half-down, about to take a piss. He curled his tongue and said, “Seven, hope you appreciate my watering skills.”

Mo Zimu calmly replied, “Thank you.”

Teabag leaned closer, took a deep breath, and said, “You smell really good.”

“Maybe I’ve been washing less lately,” Mo Zimu said, always calm and unhurried.

“Teabag!” Jude called from a distance.

Teabag smiled and walked over to Jude, swaying a bit.

That traditional sex performance was still put on by Teabag and Jude, but Mo Zimu didn’t watch.

When Tom came back, he just let out a “wow,” raising an eyebrow as if he was still savoring the experience.

Most prisoners had quietly accepted Mo Zimu, assuming he’d struggle like the rest of them in Mammon Prison, just trying to survive.

Norton’s tattooing never stopped, but he was surprisingly well-behaved. He carried himself like a professional tattoo artist, even wearing gloves when touching Mo Zimu, as if he had no inappropriate intentions at all.

Mo Zimu wondered if his luck was finally turning around.

He was truly growing weary of dealing with all the harassment.

—

Mo Zimu was on all fours as Norton began tattooing a reborn Jesus on the crease of his ass. He couldn’t use the tattoo machine there, so he had to rely on a regular needle, poking one dot at a time.

Each needle prick was a bit painful, but the image gradually took shape. From a distance, the beige and blue colors didn’t show purity but instead a kind of alluring beauty.

The process was painful, but it stayed within a tolerable range of endurance. Mo Zimu turned his head to the side, looking at the stained-glass window on the wall, where the Virgin Mary, the Holy Child, and angels were depicted.

Mo Zimu suddenly spoke slowly, asking, “Do you know who God is?”

Norton answered, “No one is God, but God can be anyone.”

The corner of Mo Zimu’s mouth curved slightly as he smiled and said, “So, God isn’t black?”

Norton immediately rejected it. “Of course not.”

“Then not white?”

Norton frowned before answering, “No.”

Mo Zimu asked again, “Could it be a woman?”

Norton replied, “No!”

“A man?”

“Not that either!”

Norton could no longer continue with his saintly tattoo. He straightened his body, took a deep breath, and Mo Zimu gracefully pulled up his pants, jumped off the table, and said, “Well, see you next time!”

Suddenly, Norton called after him. Mo Zimu turned around, and Norton said, “Don’t pick up all these bad habits. It doesn’t suit you.”

Mo Zimu smiled and turned to leave.

—

Mo Zimu often sat on the windowsill of the library, using his crude monocular to gaze into the distance.

Every week, a boat full of new prisoners would arrive at Mammon Prison. The boats were reinforced with thick iron bars, and from a distance, they looked like giant animal cages floating on the sea.

Sometimes, early in the morning, a cargo ship would arrive, stacked with poorly made food and supplies. A regular group of prisoners would drag those items back.

These tasks were usually handled by the favored underlings of Big Mouth Adolf. They were typically from wealthy families, with enough money to bribe him. They didn’t participate in the Hunter games, nor did they stay in the main block but resided in D Block, near the visiting area.

Each season, a few luxury yachts would dock at the pier, and it was usually during these times that several Hunter activities would take place.

The arrival of spring marked the peak season for the Hunters.

The wolf pack at the foot of Mammon Prison Mountain began their mating and birthing periods. Even from the mountain, the hungry howls of the wolves could be heard from below.

During this time, tension ran high among the prisoners. One after another, inmates were dying, leaving everyone to wonder if anyone would make it out of the big warehouse alive. Most of the prisoners there were serving long sentences, yet those with shorter terms seemed to perish the fastest.

“Do you know anyone from D Block?” Mo Zimu asked Tom, who was working in the kitchen.

“Yeah, and damn, being rich is really good!” Tom said enviously. “They can live to get out.”

“Can you get them to bring something for us?”

“What do you want brought? Can’t you have Ivan bring it? He can have things airlifted from Sweden, like handmade chocolates, so why can’t he buy something else for you?” Tom said teasingly.

Mo Zimu replied indifferently, “Just admit you can’t do it!”

“It’s not that I can’t, but these guys are too timid. They can’t bring anything too dangerous, but gum should be fine.”

Mo Zimu smiled slightly and said, “Small carving knives should be okay, right? I just want to pass the time.”

Tom shrugged. This was taken care of quickly. The people on the supply ship were already colluding with the prison. The goods for all the blocks were smuggled in by them, and even D block didn’t dare to block this profitable route.

Although Norton liked to show off God’s fairness in small ways, like the prey for the Hunter game always being drawn from a lottery from each zone, there was obviously no absolute fairness in the world. C Block was the weakest block in the prison, and it also bore the most prey roles.

Mo Zimu told Norton he had an interest in art and asked for some bamboo and kraft paper.

He would use these materials to make paper lanterns and asked his roommates to collect the candle stubs that were scattered around the prison. Since Mammon Prison often had power outages, these items were always abundant.

Norton appreciated these handcrafts, thinking that making handmade items in prison was a good way to cultivate one’s spirit. He even painted a few of the lanterns. However, compared to using a tattoo machine, he wasn’t very skilled with oil paints.

Occasionally, Mo Zimu would carve small animals. Tom would lean on the edge of his bed, watching him carve with full concentration. He shrugged and said, “I really believe now that you’re an art student, because you, like an artist, love to make impractical things!”

Mo Zimu smiled slightly and said, “Many people think that carving is about creating a form of beauty that the sculptor wants people to remember, but I think what carving really captures is the sculptor’s thoughts at that moment!” He then casually placed the carving in front of Tom. It was a wolf, mouth open wide, and Tom jumped in surprise.

When Big Mouth Adolf came to personally pick them up again, Mo Zimu had everyone carry a few paper lanterns.