Chapter 10.3

From Mo Zimu’s angle, he could see Tommy sitting up, holding a black leather wallet and carefully examining it.

Tom noticed Mo Zimu looking down and leaned over to see what Tommy was doing. “You old cripple, looking at your daughter’s picture again?”

Mo Zimu asked, “Tommy, do you have family?”

“You could say I don’t…” Tommy smiled and put the wallet away. “We got separated when I was young. I don’t even know if she’s dead or alive.”

Mo Zimu turned to Tom. “What about you? Do you have family?”

Tom chuckled. “My name’s Tom, but I’m no house cat. I grew up in an orphanage.”

Mo Zimu looked down at Jack, who was lying on his bed, and asked, “What about you?”

Jack’s lips quivered. “My mother died just last year…” His voice broke, and soon he started sobbing, the sound growing louder with each passing moment. “Maybe God wanted to spare her from seeing what I’ve become…” His cries were deep and heavy, like muffled drums, but loud enough to fill the room.

“Shut up!” Tom hissed. “Don’t draw the guards here!”

“Sorry… I can’t stop once I start crying.”

“Shit!” Tom cursed, sliding off his bed. He grabbed a towel and went over to muffle Jack’s mouth.

At that moment, hurried footsteps approached from outside. Tom barely had time to retreat to Tommy’s bed before two guards arrived.

The replacement for the deceased Powell was a new guard named Berrick. Standing at the door, he bellowed, “What the hell is going on?!”

Jack bit down hard on the towel, but he couldn’t stop his hiccuping sobs.

Tom forced a smile. “Boss, it’s nothing. Jack just got emotional thinking about his late mother.”

Berrick’s bulging eyes, which looked like they belonged to a horse, scanned the room. “33412, 51591, 94941, 88641. Stand up!”

Mo Zimu quickly jumped off his bed, lining up at the door alongside Tommy and Tom. Jack struggled, his massive body shaking from his uncontrollable sobbing, but he couldn’t manage to sit up.

“Get up!” Tom hissed under his breath.

“Get up! Now!” Berrick barked, striking the iron bars with his baton. “What are you playing at, huh? 88641, I said stand up!Answer me!”

Mo Zimu called out, “Boss, let me help him up!”

As Mo Zimu moved, a guard appeared behind him with a high-pressure water gun. At Berrick’s signal, a powerful jet of water shot out. He cursed, “Damn it, trying to pull something?”

The three were immediately knocked to the ground by the force of the water. Dozens of pounds of pressure pummeled their bodies relentlessly, leaving them rolling on the floor. The guards stood outside with their arms crossed, enjoying the sight of their misery.

Compared to Powell’s nasty habit of selling out prisoners for extra cash, Berrick’s pastime was even more unbearable. He loved aiming the high-pressure water gun into the cells, watching the prisoners scatter like trapped rats, helpless against the heavy water jets. To him, nothing seemed more entertaining.

Berrick, not yet forty, had been reported for prisoner abuse over forty times in other prisons. Perhaps that was why Norton had gone to the trouble of transferring him all the way from California to Mammon Prison.

After about ten minutes, he finally stopped the water gun. The three of them lay motionless on the floor, completely spent.

Berrick sneered, “Don’t let me catch you causing trouble again, or I’ll make you regret it! No lunch for C Block 204!”

Mo Zimu immediately crawled forward. “Boss, no, Boss!” He hadn’t gone far before Tommy grabbed him, pressing him down and whispering in his ear, “Pick another chance. Don’t give the guards an excuse to kill you. At worst, we’ll wait another month.”

Heavy with disappointment, Mo Zimu removed his glasses and buried his head in his arms. Tommy gently patted his shoulder.

The three of them rested briefly before managing to get up from the ground. Jack still couldn’t move.

Tom glanced at the mess in the cell, then suddenly leaped onto Jack, wrapping his hands around his neck.

Startled, Mo Zimu and Tommy hurriedly pulled him off.

“I told you, this fat slob is going to get us killed one day,” Tom panted, his chest heaving. Pinned down on the bed by Tommy, he couldn’t lash out any further.

“I’m sorry!” Jack whispered.

“Fuck you!” Tom roared.

“I’m sorry!”

“Fuck you!” Tom shouted again.

“I’m sorry!”

“Goddammit, we all knew you’d be trouble!” Tom grumbled as he got up to strip off his wet clothes.

“I’m sorry!” Jack continued to mutter.

Tom threw on a dry shirt and decided to ignore Jack altogether.

“I’m sorry!” Jack kept apologizing.

Tom leaned against the bars, staring at the crowd yelling and heading toward the cafeteria. He rubbed his growling stomach.

“I’m sorry…” Jack whispered in Tom’s ear.

Tom, now lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, jumped in fright. Jack’s large face was suddenly inches from his own. Frustrated, he yanked his blanket over his head.

“I’m sorry…” Jack’s muffled voice came through the blanket.

“For fuck’s sake, fine! I forgive you!” Tom shouted, sitting up abruptly.

Mo Zimu and Tommy burst into laughter.

Mo Zimu said, “Now that Tom’s not angry anymore, have this.” He tossed something to Tom, who caught it and laughed. “What’s this, Ivan’s leftovers? You’ve been holding onto it for this long. Don’t tell me you couldn’t bring yourself to eat it.”

Mo Zimu popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth and chewed slowly. “I just didn’t have the appetite.”

Tom gave a dry chuckle, realizing his earlier joke might’ve been inappropriate. Quickly changing the subject, he said, “Well, since lunch is out of the question, we’ll have to wait until next month.”

“Another month…” Mo Zimu muttered, staring silently at the ceiling.

A short while later, Berrick entered the cell again. The door creaked open, and all four of them sat up in alarm. But instead of trouble, he tossed a large box onto Mo Zimu’s bed and sneered, “From Ivan.”

Mo Zimu eyed the box, wrapped in pink satin ribbons, and felt an urge to toss it to the floor.

Tom, now leaning on Mo Zimu’s bed, grinned. “Something from Ivan? Open it. Maybe it’s food.”

Mo Zimu casually pulled the card pinned to the box. It bore a line of bold, elegant English handwriting: Baby, Happy Birthday! Signed, Ivan.

Mo Zimu hadn’t expected Ivan to have such refined penmanship. He wondered if he had hired someone to write it for him.

He tossed the card aside and opened the box.

“Wow, a violin?” Tom exclaimed.

Whether Ivan understood music or not, it was clear the person who picked out the violin was an expert.

Made from fifty-year-old spruce, strung with authentic whalebone strings, and crafted with a simple yet elegant design, the instrument would captivate anyone who knew its value.

Mo Zimu ran his fingers along the strings, the familiar melody almost echoing in his mind. For a brief moment, he was lost in thought before quietly placing the violin back into its case.

“Aren’t you going to play something?” Tom asked, a bit disappointed.

Mo Zimu smiled faintly and said, “Let’s rest.”

His gaze drifted through the thick prison walls, as if he could see Ivan, ears perked, waiting to hear the music. His lips curled into a sly grin, a sense of mischievous satisfaction bubbling up inside him.

Ivan always made him feel trapped, like he’d walked into a hunter’s snare of his own free will. And then the hunter would feign innocence, wiping his mouth and saying, “You’re the one who insisted on offering yourself to me. I wasn’t even that hungry.”

The feeling weighed heavily on Mo Zimu, yet he couldn’t hate Ivan the way he hated others, even though he knew Ivan was no better than any of them. Without the anchor of strong emotion, he found himself entangled in desire, ensnared in a web he couldn’t break free from.

It felt as if Ivan’s grip was slowly tightening, first around a part of him, then gradually consuming him entirely.

And throughout it all, he was powerless to escape.

Mo Zimu took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

—

By evening, Mo Zimu wasn’t feeling well. His face was flushed, and he coughed lightly.

When Ivan sent someone to fetch him, Mo Zimu coughed and said, “Tell your boss I’m not feeling well today. I’m not going.”

The man sneered arrogantly. “Seven, it’s better if you tell Ivan yourself.”

Suppressing another cough, Mo Zimu replied coldly, “I already told you. I’m not going. How you relay the message is your problem.”

The man seemed irritated and, lowering his voice, added threateningly, “Seven, don’t forget, you’ve pissed off Sticks. He hasn’t settled that score with you yet. Do you think you’re safe here just because you share Ivan’s bed? You better..”

Before he could finish, Mo Zimu slammed the table and snatched a spoon, pointing it directly at the man’s eye. “Listen carefully. I said I’m not going!”

With the memory of Mo Zimu once stabbing a guard’s eye with a pencil, the man froze in fear, too scared to move.

Suddenly, a hand struck Mo Zimu’s wrist. His grip weakened, and the spoon fell to the ground. His wrist was swiftly restrained.

“Seven, why the temper?” Ivan’s calm voice asked. “All this just because I asked you to join me for dinner?” With a slight tug, Ivan pulled Mo Zimu to face him.

Ivan’s thick brows furrowed as he pressed his palm against Mo Zimu’s nape, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Mo Zimu’s. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

Mo Zimu didn’t resist, knowing it would be futile.

“You have a fever,” Ivan said matter-of-factly.

A patrolling guard approached, looking at the scene. “Ivan, what’s going on here?”

“Someone’s sick. We need to get them to the infirmary immediately!” Ivan said as he scooped Mo Zimu into his arms.

Mo Zimu’s face turned bright red. Even though everyone knew he was Ivan’s bed partner, he had never let Ivan display it so openly.

“Put me down!” Mo Zimu growled through gritted teeth.

“Stop fussing over these things, baby. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be staying in my room.”

“Ivan, we’ll take him!” the guard hesitated.

“He’s burning up and just got back from Hunter Night. It could be malaria, maybe even contagious…” Ivan’s cold, silver-gray eyes stared the guard down, his gaze like ice.

The guard rested a hand on his baton and said, “Fine, Ivan, I’ll let you take him, but I’m coming with you.”

Carrying Mo Zimu, Ivan strode across the yard and headed straight to the infirmary, housed in the same building as the visitation area.

Dr. Mike, dressed in a white coat, paused when he saw Mo Zimu, but quickly composed himself. “Lay the patient down, then all of you can leave,” he said to Ivan.

Ivan placed Mo Zimu on the bed, leaning down to whisper in his ear, “Take care of yourself, and don’t let me see you weak again, hmm?”

Mo Zimu turned his head to the side, ignoring him. Ivan glanced at Mike before leaving, his expression indifferent.

As soon as Ivan was gone, Mo Zimu sat up and said, “It’s just a fever. Just give me something to bring it down!” He coughed lightly after speaking.

Mike handed him a thermometer after wiping it with alcohol. “Let’s check your temperature first.”

Taking the thermometer, Mo Zimu placed it in his mouth and walked slowly to the window.

From there, he could see the Caribbean Sea beyond the cliffs where the infirmary perched. The vast blue waters stretched endlessly under the crimson sunset, resembling a grand oil painting. A few seagulls occasionally crossed the scene, leaving behind faint silhouettes of freedom.

Mike reached out to touch Mo Zimu’s back, causing him to flinch instinctively. Mike held up his stethoscope with a reassuring smile. “Relax, I mean no harm. Don’t be afraid.”

Mo Zimu lowered his head slightly and turned around. Mike slid his hand under Mo Zimu’s shirt, listening for a moment. “It’s more than just a fever,” he said. “You’ve probably developed pneumonia. You’ll need an IV.”

Mo Zimu frowned. “Does that mean I’ll have to stay here?”

Mike nodded while filling out a form. “I’m afraid so. You’ll need to be monitored.”

Mo Zimu took a deep breath but didn’t respond further.

“Do you have a lot on your mind?” Mike asked.

“Why do you ask?”

Mike smiled. “Because most prisoners don’t care about time. They’d rather stay in my ward than the dormitory. The beds are softer, and the food is better. But you don’t seem keen.”

“Maybe it’s because the light here is too bright.”

“Too bright?”

Mo Zimu turned to him with a faint smile. “It gives the illusion of freedom.”

Mike was silent for a moment before saying, “Come on, let’s get to your room. I’ll start your IV.”

Mo Zimu followed Mike through the corridor. Just next door was the infirmary. There were windows here too, but unlike the one in Mike’s room, these were set high up on the walls.

Light streamed in from above, distant and unreachable. But the fluorescent lights were bright enough to make up for the lack of natural light, so bright that one could almost forget the place was starved of real light.

Mike carefully expelled the air from the IV needle, wiped Mo Zimu’s skin with alcohol, and inserted the needle. Mo Zimu asked, “It seems like there aren’t many doctors here.”

Mike smile. “Mammon doesn’t need too many doctors.”

The medication began to take effect in Mo Zimu’s body, and a wave of drowsiness washed over him. He faintly heard Mike ask, “Is there anything you’d like for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Nothing in particular, thank you,” Mo Zimu replied with a small smile.

Half-asleep, he vaguely sensed someone approaching his bed. His glasses were gently removed, and he thought he heard a voice murmur faintly, “So it really is you.”