Chapter 18.2

Mo Zimu walked out of the visitation room with a pale face. In the exercise yard, prisoners were out for their recreational time.

Mammon prisoners looked especially fearful today, their heads bent together in hushed whispers, as if life-and-death matters were
just seconds away from unfolding.

On this Tuesday morning, Adolf, after enduring Norton’s initial fury, began venting all his frustrations on the inmates. Starting with the D-block prisoners, anyone who had crossed paths with Hatch or had ever spoken ill of him suffered brutal punishment.

Tommy and Tom gestured to Mo Zimu from across the yard. He turned and walked toward them.

“You don’t look well,” Tom remarked.

Mo Zimu responded flatly, “It’s nothing.”

Jack, fidgeting with his thick lips, added, “You’re not sick, are you, Seven?”

Mo Zimu shook his head slightly, then nodded. “I’m feeling a bit unwell. I’ll head back first.”

As they watched him walk away, Tom turned to Tommy and asked, “Do you think Seven is worried? Could there be a problem with our plan?”

Tommy stayed silent, but Jack spoke up. “Impossible. Seven’s so smart. His plans never have problems.”

Tom took a deep breath, swallowing his irritation to avoid an argument with the hefty Jack.

—

Mo Zimu curled up on the bed. By lunchtime, Ivan had returned. He sat on the edge of the bed and asked, “What’s wrong?”

When Mo Zimu didn’t respond, Ivan reached out and pulled him closer. “Who are you mad at now?”

The moment his hand touched Mo Zimu’s body, Ivan froze. He quickly felt his forehead and frowned. “You’ve got a fever!”

Mo Zimu turned his body sharply, retreating further into the corner of the bed, ignoring Ivan.

Ivan stood up and banged on the cell bars. Berrick approached, maintaining a cautious attitude. While he didn’t fully understand Ivan’s background, there was always an underlying fear that made him treat Ivan with a basic level of respect.

“What is it?”

“Seven has a high fever. I need to take him to Mike.” Ivan’s voice was cold.

Hearing that Norton’s favorite was unwell, Berrick quickly unlocked the cell.

Just like before, Ivan picked Mo Zimu up in his arms, only to face unexpected resistance.

Mo Zimu glared up at him and said, “Let go of me, Ivan. I don’t need you to take care of me!”

Ivan pressed him firmly back onto the bed. “Seven, I’m thrilled to hear such independent words from you. But unfortunately, every inch of you belongs to me, and I won’t let it suffer the slightest harm. When we get back, you’ll tell me what that little priest said to make you so feverish.”

Mo Zimu stared at him coldly. “You’ve been having me watched?”

Ivan smiled faintly. “I told you before, Seven, I know everything that happens in this prison, down to a single screw being brought in.”

In Ivan’s deeply sunken eyes, there seemed to be secrets Mo Zimu couldn’t grasp. Yet, he vaguely realized that while he might escape Rong Qing, Donald, or Geoffrey, it would be nearly impossible to escape Ivan.

Closing his eyes, Mo Zimu let exhaustion take over.

—

Mike observed quietly as Mo Zimu was brought in again. The routine was the same as before, with IV fluids and needles prepared nearby. As he inserted the needle into Mo Zimu’s vein, Mike commented, “Seven, your health isn’t great. You need to take better care of yourself.”

Mo Zimu, eyes still closed, murmured, “Please, I don’t want to see Geoffrey.”

At that moment, he didn’t want to see anyone, least of all Geoffrey, with his lofty demeanor and mocking expressions.

Mike paused before replying, “Alright.”

Mo Zimu lay quietly on the bed. The high fever made his head spin, as if countless hands were squeezing his skull, pressing down on his body, making it hard to breathe. Chaotic images flickered through his mind, one after another, a jumbled mess floating before his eyes.

“Hello, I’m Daniel. Nice to meet you!”

“Just call me Rong Qing. I’m half Chinese, actually.”

“Make yourself at home, Seven. I… I’ve set up an extra bed in my room, haha. It’s small, but hey, I bought this apartment!”

“Your violin playing is excellent. You’ve got a promising future.”

Rong Qing’s smile appeared in his mind, so distant yet elusive. Mo Zimu realized, in hindsight, that he hadn’t seen the veiled malice hidden beneath that faint smile.

“I told you before, Seven. You’re not allowed to do things like this anymore. I’ll figure out the tuition and living expenses!”

“Seven, will you remember someone who wholeheartedly cares about you?”

Each memory, like a towering wall, collapsed over him, burying him deep beneath the ground, making it impossible to breathe.

Mo Zimu clutched at his neck, feeling as though someone was choking him, suffocating him to the point of breathlessness.

Someone loosened his collar, and suddenly, he felt as though he could breathe fresh air again. He gasped loudly, desperate for oxygen. Then, a mocking voice broke through the haze.

“I didn’t expect your crying to sound so pleasant,” the voice teased.

Mo Zimu opened his eyes to see Ivan sitting at the bedside, watching him with a faint, mocking smile.

Mo Zimu shot upright. When he touched his face, he realized it was streaked with tears. Panicking slightly, he tried to wipe them away.

Ivan grabbed his hand. “Relax. Who hasn’t shed a tear in their sleep? Seven, tears are a good thing.”

Mo Zimu struggled to free himself, but the grip didn’t budge. Ivan pulled him close, saying, “Seven, just let yourself cry.”

“Can I pretend you don’t exist?”

“Pretend I’m dead if it helps,” came the reply with a slight smile.

Mo Zimu’s body trembled slightly as he was held firmly. Ivan knew this was a rare moment to get close to him. Despite his youth, Mo Zimu had been through so much that he rarely allowed himself to be vulnerable.

Ivan, ever the pragmatist, wasn’t going to waste such an opportunity.

Wrapping his solid arms around Mo Zimu’s slender frame, he relished the feeling of holding him. It was as though he could completely possess him, keeping him entirely within his grasp.

Mo Zimu leaned into Ivan’s chest. At that moment, he truly didn’t want to resist. He felt like a wounded, exhausted prey, aware of the crocodile lurking in the river ahead but too weak to deny the temptation of a drink of water.

Ivan’s strong, muscular arms provided warmth and security, yet Mo Zimu knew they also stripped him of freedom. Still, the warmth was as irresistible as the river, its allure impossible for him to resist.

Ivan shifted to sit fully on the bed, leaning against the wall. In doing so, Mo Zimu naturally ended up resting against him.

“Do bears cry too?” Mo Zimu asked coldly.

“They do,” Ivan replied, dragging out the word. “Usually when they wet the bed as kids.”

Mo Zimu couldn’t help but glance back at the massive man holding him. The image of this towering figure wetting the bed as a child made him smile involuntarily.

Ivan tightened his arms around him, chuckling softly. “See? After the rain comes a rainbow, and after tears, there’s a smile.”

Mo Zimu let out a sigh and said, “Ivan, can we not keep a tally today?”

Ivan leaned in, inhaling the scent of his hair. He loved Mo Zimu’s scent. Every time he caught it, an overwhelming desire surged within him, a longing to possess him completely. His tongue brushed lightly over the back of Mo Zimu’s neck as he murmured, “What are we not tallying?”

“Your…” Mo Zimu began but hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it. He thought of saying “your embrace” or “your comfort,” but neither felt right. He knew Ivan was calculating, and perhaps all this warmth was just another step toward the eventual prize of conquest. But Mo Zimu ultimately held back the words.

Instead, he became acutely aware of Ivan’s growing hardness pressing against him. He closed his eyes, then exhaled softly. “Let’s just do it, Ivan.”