Chapter 11.1

The man stared at Mo Zimu’s face, his eyes filled with a complex mix of excitement, confusion, and something indescribably mixed in.

He slowly lowered his head, pressing his lips to Mo Zimu’s, but it was only a fleeting touch. He instantly pulled away as if he was shocked by his own action.

Unsure if he was disgusted by the person he kissed or his own sneaky behavior, he fiercely wiped his lips with his hand and then turned and left.

Now, the room was left with only Mo Zimu lying there quietly. His eyelids fluttered twice, but ultimately, they remained weakly closed.

The medication Mike used seemed highly effective. By morning, Mo Zimu’s fever had subsided, and his cough had significantly improved.

The conditions in Mammon infirmary were noticeably better. Breakfast brought milk and white bread, the long-missed rich scent of milk mingling with the smell of butter, lifting his spirits.

“When can I go back to the cell?” Mo Zimu asked, looking at Mike who was wiping his arm with alcohol.

Mike lifted his light brown eyes and smiled, “Most people here hope to leave later rather than sooner. Even if there’s an illusion of freedom, shouldn’t people look forward to it more?”

Mo Zimu remained expressionless. “How long do I need to stay here?”

“A week, judging by your condition.”

The syringe slowly pushed the medication into Mo Zimu’s vein, and a familiar weariness washed over him. Feeling a chill, he tucked his arm under the blanket.

Mike walked out, and time seemed to stand still again.

Suddenly, Mo Zimu’s eyes snapped open. Standing before him was a young man with pale golden hair.

His face was small but well-defined, his body tall and slender, making him always look down slightly, his delicate features exuding a condescending air.

“Is it you?” Mo Zimu sat up.

Geoffrey slid his hands into his pockets and said calmly, “Seven, who am I?”

“You’re not the Hunter?” Mo Zimu murmured.

Geoffrey looked down and chuckled, “Would you come with me?”

“With you?” Mo Zimu smiled slightly, “How would I follow you?”

“Give yourself over to me completely,” Geoffrey said slowly.

Mo Zimu frowned slightly, and Geoffrey laughed, “What, does it ring a bell now, Seven? I thought you went off to Austria to become a great musician. Turns out you’re living like a dog, a piece of meat ready to be ordered and slaughtered at any moment. No wonder Asians love eating dogs. They resemble one!”

Geoffrey stepped closer to Mo Zimu, “Maybe if you had chosen to follow me back then, you wouldn’t be in such a sorry state, right?”

Mo Zimu took off his glasses, wiped off the dust, then put them back on. He lifted his head and said, “Sorry, I can’t remember who you are.”

Geoffrey’s golden eyes blazed almost as if on fire, so bright they were hard to stare into.

He moved swiftly, pinning Mo Zimu down on the bed, his cold laugh cutting through the air, “Seven, if you knew the only way out of here was death, would you still be so defiant? I’m your only hope here. Think about it carefully.”

Mo Zimu seemed startled by the comment, frowning as he replied, “Thanks, but I’m only here for a five-year sentence.”

Geoffrey dismissed this with a sneer, “No one leaves Mammon Prison except in a body bag.”

“Is that because of your barbaric Hunter games, slaughtering your own kind?” Mo Zimu shot back coldly.

“Those drug dealers, rapists, prostitutes, murderers.. don’t you think their deaths are justified?” Geoffrey’s well-shaped lips curved slightly. “This isn’t a game. In your Chinese saying, it’s acting on heaven’s behalf. Isn’t that exactly what this is?”

“And what gives you the right to play God? Just because you’re richer and more privileged than the prisoners, you think you can judge their sins?”

Mo Zimu’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Even through his glasses, Geoffrey could see his contemptuous gaze.

“You’re no better than anyone else,” Mo Zimu continued. “You just think more highly of yourself than everyone.”

Geoffrey’s emotions twisted oddly at that moment, as if an old, forgotten feeling had resurfaced. The man before him was still the Seven he knew. Talented, smart, and aloof. He was usually silent, but when he spoke, his words could sting.

Despite his anger, Geoffrey couldn’t deny that this man had a way of pulling him down from his high clouds, forcing him to meet his gaze eye to eye.

Without his sense of superiority, he felt exposed. It infuriated him, yet it also excited him. A thrill that far surpassed the exhilaration he felt while hunting prisoners on Mammon Island.

Mo Zimu fell silent, and as Geoffrey looked at him, a sudden wave of irritation surged within him.

From the first time he saw Seven, it seemed he had always been chasing his steps. Seven always seemed within easy reach, yet he always just missed the mark.

At eighteen, Seven’s features had sharpened, shedding the softness of his youth. He had grown taller, and the large-framed glasses he now wore made Geoffrey fail to recognize him at first glance.

But upon closer inspection, that essence unique to Seven was unmistakable. He was always calm, neither servile nor overbearing, appearing delicate yet challenging to subdue. He was handsome, but his demeanor far surpassed his looks.

He was like a private treasure, not necessarily priceless but definitely crafted with uniqueness. If you had ever paid attention, it would inevitably stir something within you.

Over these five years, Geoffrey had kept Seven in his thoughts. His feelings toward him were complex, swinging between extreme contempt and undeniable importance, sometimes dismissive yet involuntarily attentive.

Occasionally, the thought would suddenly strike him. Could he like him? The idea would startle him.

Like? How could he like a bastard, the son of a woman who was perpetually drunk?

Perhaps it was this thought that frightened him, making him restrain himself from seeking out this Eurasian for the past five years.

Now, standing close to Seven, the scent from his collar quickened Geoffrey’s heartbeat. It was a grass-like smell, slightly green and raw, but not refreshing. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Geoffrey could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

He couldn’t help but lower his head slightly, his lips hovering near Mo Zimu’s face when suddenly Mo Zimu said, “Dr. Mike.”

Mike stopped at the door, and Mo Zimu withdrew his hand from the buzzer.

Geoffrey reluctantly abandoned the thought of forcing a kiss. A strong sense of defeat washed over him as he stood up, his expression cold and slightly angered. “Seven, I will make you bow to me, just like when you picked up money in front of me back then.”

Mo Zimu said nothing. He calmly took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Dr. Mike, it seems my pneumonia isn’t severe enough to require long-term treatment here, right?”

Mike showed a hint of embarrassment, while Geoffrey coldly smiled and said, “He loves being raped so much, let him be!”

He walked out. The door slammed shut behind him, the loud sound seemingly reflecting the turbulence in Geoffrey’s heart.

“Seven, you’re not like the others. If you go to Samson Academy, you might have a chance to get out,” Mike urged.

Mo Zimu chuckled lightly.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I’ve realized that Mammon Prison is a strange place, with many gods, each making their own judgments of sin and punishment.”

Mo Zimu got off the bed and leisurely fastened the buttons on his shirt, his shallow smirk paired with his deep, ink-green eyes exuding an indescribable confidence and charm that left a lasting impression.

He said, “Thanks for your concern, but I have my own Noah’s Ark.”

Back in his cell, the joyful looks of his cellmates made Mo Zimu feel unexpectedly lighter. Knowing that he was awaited made him feel less adrift.

He high-fived Tom.

Tom rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Alright, let’s get started. Jack, go block the door.”

Jack complied, his hefty build effectively sealing the doorway.

Mo Zimu crouched down with a small stone and began drawing on the floor. “This is A Block, and this is D Block. The library is in between. A Block is a standalone building, but the library and D Block are connected in an L-shape. I’m certain their ventilation ducts are connected. If we enter through the library’s vent, we might find where D Block’s trash is stored.”

Tommy shook his head, “Impossible, you must have heard that there’s a cement barrier between the buildings in Mammon Prison, with only a mesh of less than ten centimeters for ventilation.”

Mo Zimu nodded and smiled, “Correct, but these buildings were constructed in 1932 during the Roosevelt New Deal era…”

“What does that matter?” Tom interjected.

“Meaning, it’s likely that the buildings were made with what’s called WPA concrete, which at the time didn’t meet standards, too damp and prone to seepage. It looks solid on the surface but is actually quite fragile, as can be seen from the walls and floor of the library. Mammon is extremely humid being by the sea, and if I’m not mistaken, that cement barrier shouldn’t be hard to dig through.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up, but then his expression dimmed. “Digging a passage in the library doesn’t seem practical. It’s usually occupied.”

“It’s not always occupied by many…” Mo Zimu lowered his head slightly. “Like when Ivan and I… were having sex.”

Tom and Tommy fell silent for a while, then Tommy said, “That’s a feasible way. I can make you a pair of makeshift tools.”

Tom laughed, “I’m nimble, I’ll crawl in and dig.”

After discussing, everyone went back to their beds to rest.