Chapter 16.2

12:15 PM

Mo Zimu followed Berrick back to the main block. Despite the five thousand dollars, Berrick’s attitude toward him had not noticeably improved.

As they reached the entrance, Mo Zimu turned and said, “Boss, if my cellmates are not participating in Hunter Night tonight, I assume you’ve already found replacements, correct?”

Berrick glared at him with his sharp, horse-like eyes. “Do I need you to tell me how to do my job?”

“Forgive my meddling, Boss. If this deal were with Chief Adolf, I wouldn’t have so many questions,” Mo Zimu replied calmly.

“What do you mean?! Are you mocking me?” Berrick shouted, his anger boiling over.

“It’s just the truth,” Mo Zimu said evenly. “I’m not questioning your capabilities, Boss. When it comes to competence, I believe you surpass Chief Adolf. However, Chief Adolf has… shall we say, deeper connections. Because of this, he holds more sway with Boss Norton.”

Berrick felt both pleased and uneasy at Mo Zimu’s words, as though they scratched an itch without relieving it, making it even more unbearable.

He lowered his voice and growled, “Kid, stop playing games with me. Are you trying to stir up trouble between the officers?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Mo Zimu replied softly. “I’m simply pointing out that the money came from Duke Donald, who happens to be an old friend of Warden Norton. If you take his money but fail to deliver, you know better than I what the consequences could be.”

Berrick’s large eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets, but Mo Zimu continued nonchalantly, “If it were me, I wouldn’t pocket a black noble’s money for nothing. I heard he once ruined a police officer financially for daring to insist on ticketing his car. The officer took fifty dollars from him. How much did you take?”

Berrick’s face turned pale, and Mo Zimu was confident his words had struck a nerve.

Kaspersky had put it aptly. Most guards in Mammon were motivated by money, but Berrick craved power and the thrill of control.

To Mo Zimu, Berrick was merely a guard dog.

A dog barking at a beggar didn’t just fulfill its duty. It expressed its sense of hierarchy.

Berrick’s disdain for money came only from his submissiveness to power.

“I’ll figure something out,” Berrick said through gritted teeth.

The bell rang. Mo Zimu raised his hand. “Boss, may I go straight to the cafeteria now?”

Berrick, lost in thought, impatiently waved him off.

Mo Zimu, with his hands in his pockets, strolled away leisurely. He entered the cafeteria and headed straight to C204’s table.

Tom looked at him with anticipation, lowering his voice before Mo Zimu even had a chance to sit down. “Did you fix it?”

Mo Zimu scanned the room.

Ivan wasn’t there. Sticks sat with a few familiar faces, Jude was likely still staying with Mike, and Teabag seemed to have found a new pretty boy, though he didn’t look particularly pleased.

Spearing a piece of potato with his fork, Mo Zimu replied, “I spent fifty thousand dollars to buy your heads from Berrick.”

Tommy frowned. “How did Berrick let you run a tab?”

Mo Zimu was silent for a moment before answering, “I had Donald pay for it.”

The table fell into an awkward silence.

After a while, Tom finally muttered, “At least the problem’s solved. We’ll be out next week anyway. We can settle the score with that old bastard then.”

Mo Zimu popped a piece of cold potato into his mouth. “I don’t think the problem is solved. Berrick doesn’t have much authority to decide who participates in Hunter Night. Adolf is an impulsive man. I doubt he’s meticulous enough to arrange proper backups before leaving or patient enough to tolerate changes to the Hunter list.”

Tom’s face froze. “So you’re saying we still have to participate in that damned Hunter?”

“It’s possible,” Mo Zimu replied, pulling out the pocket watch. “In twenty minutes, it’ll be D Block’s meal time. Their overlapping break with ours is ten minutes. Tom needs to use that time to crawl through the tunnel and retrieve that bottle of whiskey.”

“But what about Hunter?” Tom asked anxiously, his face full of worry.

“Stay calm, Tom,” Tommy said quietly. “Seven has done everything he could. He wouldn’t have asked Donald unless it was absolutely necessary.”

Jack chimed in, murmuring words of reassurance to Tom, though the latter barely paid attention.

“Shit,” Tom muttered under his breath, frustration etched on his face.

Mo Zimu took a deep breath and said, “D Block’s inmates aren’t nosy. The whole floor only has cells on the ground level. Finding a room with just one bed shouldn’t be hard. As long as you’re quick in and out, it’ll be fine.”

Tom grumbled, “Easier said than done. Ten minutes to find the room, unlock the door, get the bottle, and crawl back.”

Mo Zimu responded firmly, “Your safety is the priority. If time runs out or there’s any risk, abort the mission. It’s not worth it. We’ll figure out another way to cover it up. Adolf has no hard evidence, and you have no direct ties to Hatch. He might not be able to pin it on you.”

12:45 PM

Mo Zimu and Tommy were the first to leave the cafeteria. As soon as they got up, Mo Zimu noticed several people trailing behind them.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” Tommy muttered.

Mo Zimu remained silent, his fingers clutching the pocket watch tightly. Each tick of the second hand felt like it was pounding in his chest.

His earlier calm words had been to ease Tom’s nerves, but he knew the bottle had to be retrieved at all costs.

This was Mammon.

Adolf’s reputation for ruthlessness meant he wouldn’t hesitate to punish indiscriminately. Whether or not Tom was truly involved, Adolf would make him bear the blame. If that happened, their entire operation would be exposed.

“Seven, what are you thinking?” Tommy asked softly.

Mo Zimu slowly shifted his gaze to meet Tommy’s eyes.

12:58 PM

Tommy whispered urgently, “Tom? Tom!”

The ventilation duct remained silent. Tom had yet to retrieve the bottle and return through the tunnel.

Even Tommy, usually composed, had beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

The pocket watch ticked relentlessly, each second weighing heavier. The duct stayed eerily quiet.

Mo Zimu glanced at the door before speaking abruptly. “Jack, go over and start a fight with Teabag. Make it loud.”

Jack, understanding the gravity of the situation, nodded. For once, he moved quickly and purposefully toward the door.

He crossed the courtyard and headed to the other side. His massive figure drew the attention of many, but most didn’t find it unusual. The library had recently become part of C Block, Cell 204’s territory, so his presence didn’t alarm anyone.

Despite his size, Jack was known as a meek and obliging man in the prison. People often called him “Fatty,” and he always responded with a smile.

But today, as he passed Teabag and his new partner, Jack’s large frame accidentally collided with Teabag, sending him stumbling backward.

His face turned pale with alarm. “T-Teabag… Boss, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Teabag, already seething from pent-up frustration, exploded. “You damn fatty! You dare bump into me?”

His roar echoed through the courtyard, immediately drawing attention as the tension between the two escalated.

Jack trembled all over, his massive frame shaking visibly. Despite being a head taller and three times Teabag’s size, he seemed to shrink in on himself, his thick lips turning pale with fear. It was as if he were cowering into a ball, terrified to the core.

Teabag shrugged off the helping hand of his pretty new companion and launched into Jack with punches and kicks. He put all his strength into every blow, but Jack’s thick layer of fat made it seem like he was pounding on a wall of rubber. No matter how hard he struck, he could hardly do more than bruise the surface.

The scene looked less like a beating and more like Teabag giving Jack a vigorous back massage.

The crowd of onlookers grew larger, their laughter and jeers mixing with the shrill whistles of the guards. Yet in Mammon, where fighting and bloodshed were part of the culture, guards in the watchtowers rarely intervened unless absolutely necessary.

Jack, like a massive tiger, barely moved under Teabag’s assault.

Teabag, by comparison, was no more than an angry flea, futilely lashing out at something far beyond his strength. The watching prisoners began to laugh and mock openly, their snickers filling the air.

But Teabag’s fury was uncontainable. His rage boiled over, and suddenly, he pulled out a small blade. The flash of steel drew gasps from the crowd.

Just as the tension peaked, Jack collapsed. His massive body hit the ground with a heavy thud, the impact rattling the floor and kicking up a cloud of dust.

“God, he’s fainted…”

“Isn’t Fatty supposed to have heart problems? Looks like he’s having another attack.”

Teabag hesitated, gripping his blade tighter. For a moment, he seemed tempted to strike again. But Jack’s convulsing limbs and foaming mouth painted a grim picture. His breathing was already shallow, his body barely holding on.

Just then, a group of guards stormed in, their batons swinging to break up the crowd.

From somewhere in the chaos, Tommy’s voice rang out. “Boss, Jack’s been attacked! He needs medical attention!”

Berrick, his face twisted in fury, shouted, “Damn it! Who gave you rats permission to fight? Get back to the block. Didn’t you hear the bell?”

He pointed at Tommy and a few other guards. “Take that damn fatty to the infirmary!”

Teabag had already disappeared, and Berrick, cursing under his breath, began herding the remaining prisoners back to their cells.