Chapter 5.1

Tom’s expression changed slightly. “Boss, Seven is from C Block.”

“Isn’t he one of Ivan’s men?” A faint flush crossed Teabag’s gaunt face as he turned to Ivan. “Ivan, just say the word. Is he yours or not?”

Ivan’s gaze settled on Mo Zimu. He remained silent for a long moment before finally replying, his voice laced with ambiguity, “That depends on how you define it, physically or just in terms of where he’s housed in this prison.”

The entire main hall erupted in hushed laughter.

Teabag smirked. “If Ivan says he’s his, then according to the rules, I can pick him. Otherwise, we’re at an impasse.” He shot Mo Zimu a menacing grin as he spoke.

Behind him, a towering Black man, clearly a Hunter from B Block, licked his lips and started warming up, his eyes locked onto Mo Zimu.

Tommy’s dark face remained expressionless, but his voice was firm as he declared, “Teabag, I don’t agree.”

Ivan spread his hands casually. “Well, you heard him. How about you wait until I get this little sweetheart transferred to A Block before making your move?”

Teabag leaned against the iron bars and taunted Tommy, “Tommy, if you hadn’t spoken up, I would’ve forgotten you even existed, you crippled old man. Do you really think you’re the boss of C Block? Huh? C Block is full of weaklings, and even your leader hasn’t said a word. Who the hell are you to object?”

“I said no,” Tommy coughed twice before continuing, “It’s against the rules.”

Teabag jabbed a finger toward a massive white man in C Block. “Rules? Fucking hell. Pusbucket, your guy just told me no. Is that a rule you set?”

Pusbucket’s face turned red, and he snapped at Tommy, “Shut the fuck up! What, you got a thing for this kid too? This is for Ivan to decide!”

Once again, all eyes turned to Ivan.

He frowned, his gaze fixed on Mo Zimu. “Are you fucking mine?”

Mo Zimu stayed silent for a long moment before finally answering, his tone honest and plain. “No.”

“Wow,” Teabag let out a strange, eerie laugh that sent a chill through the room.

Ivan gave a grim smile, scratching at his thick eyebrows, but said nothing. The prison buzzed with whispers, disbelief rippling through the inmates. Ivan being publicly denied was undoubtedly a humiliating blow.

But Mo Zimu had no other choice, it was like a chain trap. If he escaped A, he was bound to run into B.

He spent the entire afternoon on his bed, half-curled up, reading a yellowed book borrowed from the library. The book was titled The Catcher in the Rye Preface.

The protagonist, Holden, wanted to be a catcher in the rye, someone who would stand guard in a vast field, catching children before they accidentally fell off a cliff while playing.

But what if the protagonist himself had already fallen into the abyss?

How could he possibly be anyone’s catcher?

A sharp scream rang out from outside, as if answering the question. Another person from B Block was dead, and another kidney from A Block had been harvested.

Tom entered and noticed the book in Mo Zimu’s hand. He remarked, “Scarecrow.”

“Huh?” Mo Zimu looked up at him.

Tom shrugged and said, “Shouldn’t the one watching over the rye field be a scarecrow?”

Mo Zimu closed the book and stared at the broken ceiling above him.

Night fell. Tomorrow would be the weekend, which would be his first in Mammon Prison.

“Seven” also means “weekend,” but for him, the word seemed to bring more misfortune than joy. He was born on a weekend and had been condemned on one as well.

Just as he closed his eyes, the sound of a baton striking the door jolted him awake.

It was Powell, the chubby officer, shouting, “Get up, Seven. The day you requested has been scheduled.”

Mo Zimu opened his eyes and walked to the door. As the iron bars slid open, he asked, “What day did I request?”

Powell cursed and replied, “You requested it yourself. Do I have to remember it for you?”

He shoved Mo Zimu roughly and escorted him to the bathroom. “Shower,” he said coldly.

Although he had only been in prison for a few days, Mo Zimu had already realized that the guards here were more bloodthirsty than sharks.

He stripped off his clothes and quickly washed himself. His mind wandered, wondering if this was another one of the warden’s twisted games. Last time, the warden had completed his “Judgment Day” tableau with Saint Peter. Perhaps this time, it would be the flayed martyr.

“Stop dragging your feet,” Powell shouted again. His eyes briefly flashed with disdain, but Mo Zimu caught it clearly.

Some emotions always seemed to come in pairs, like hatred, hostility, and contempt.

He followed Powell across the wire-fenced yard toward the other side of the castle.

As they passed through the main gate, they entered a green-painted corridor lined with two rows of bedrooms.

Powell stands at a doorway and said, “On Couples’ Day, from 6 PM to 6 AM, you are allowed to have sex, but you cannot scream. At 6 o’clock, you will strip naked here for inspection. No smuggling allowed, no…”

Mo Zimu interrupts with a pale face, “Boss I’m only seventeen, how could I have a wife to celebrate Couples’ Day with?”

As he finishes his words, the door is flung open, and Donald stands very elegantly at the doorway, saying very gently, “Seven, it’s me!”

Mo Zimu quickly turned and bolted, but he didn’t get far before a towering black bodyguard caught him around the waist, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing.

“Let me go!” Mo Zimu yelled as he thrashed in his grip. “I’ll sue you! I’ll sue Mammon Prison!”

Powell laughs, but does not reply, instead he says to Donald, “Enjoy at your leisure. I won’t disturb you.”

Donald gracefully makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture, and Mo Zimu is carried by the black bodyguard into the room.

The room contains a large bed that looks clean and soft.

Mo Zimu’s entire body trembles. He was so frightened he can barely stand, practically hanging limp in the bodyguard’s hands.

Donald approaches and caresses his face gently. “Seven… I’ve really missed you.” Then he lowers his head to kiss Mo Zimu’s smooth cheek.

Mo Zimu sprang into action, lifting his foot to deliver a harsh kick toward Donald’s groin. But before he could follow through, a sharp pain shot through his arm. It was so intense it felt like the bone might snap, forcing him to stop mid-motion.

“I never treated you as livestock, you’re just a quiet little wild beast,” Donald says cheerfully.

He is pushed onto the bed, and Donald carefully removes his glasses, looking at him with extreme tenderness, then takes out a syringe, “Baby, this shot will make you feel relaxed and happy, I won’t hurt you.”

Mo Zimu panted heavily and exclaimed,
“Donald, I am your own son!”

Donald still looks at him tenderly, “I never wanted Miss Li to bear me a son, and I’ve never been interested in my own sons. But you are different, you’re the only one I want to possess, the fact you’re my son is just a coincidence…”

Mo Zimu watched the medicine slowly sink into his skin. His throat tightened as he begged, “Please, for the sake of my mother…”

Donald slowly unbuttoned Mo Zimu’s shirt, revealing his delicate collarbones and honey-colored skin, now damp with sweat from the struggle. Beads of moisture trailed down his long, slightly protruding throat, disappearing into the elegant hollow below.

Donald’s green eyes darkened with hunger. His breath quickened as he leaned in and whispered, “What I love most about Miss Li is that she gave birth to you.”

He lowers his head, licking Mo Zimu’s chest, gently circling the small bump like a grain of rice. Mo Zimu closes his eyes, the drug’s effects quickly taking hold. The stimulation on his sensitive spots makes him tremble uncontrollably, and he bites his tongue hard to suppress any moans.

The taste of blood fills his entire mouth.

Donald had already unzipped Mo Zimu’s pants, pressing kisses along his flat stomach while sliding them down with one hand. The Black bodyguard, as if only now realizing Mo Zimu was no longer a threat, finally released him.

As soon as the bodyguard let go, Mo Zimu threw a punch at Donald’s face. He missed, and Donald retaliated with a slap that drew blood from Mo Zimu’s mouth, causing him to fall back onto a pillow.

Donald began to undress, still speaking gently, “Seven, I have John hold you down not because I fear your resistance, but because I fear accidentally hurting you.”

He took off his suit, handed it to John, who took it with a bow and left the room.

He removed his shirt and trousers, placing them neatly on the chair. Though he was no longer young, his body was still well-maintained. His muscles were firm and well-proportioned.

Now fully naked, he climbed on top of Mo Zimu. His gaze lingered on the tattoo as he murmured, “Seven, you need to be stronger. We’re Sutherlands. We may die, but we must never be humiliated.”
His fingers pinched the image of St. Peter as he added, “Though it is, admittedly, very sexy… too sexy.”

Mo Zimu scoffed, “If one should not be humiliated, then what are you doing straddling your own son?”

Donald’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, “Do you think I am humiliating you?”

“I think you’re humiliating yourself.”

Donald laughed. He had been very handsome in his youth, of a distinguished status, charming many, including Mo Zimu’s mother. Now older, the years had not diminished his looks. Rather, his mature demeanor only added to his appeal.

Many socialites considered a night with him a badge of honor, and many increased their value from just one night with a Sutherland.

But Donald had never expected that at a charity gala he would meet a young man who would make him forget himself, unable to think of anything but possessing him.

The youth was merely wearing a plain white tracksuit, standing outside the grand entrance, leaning against a large pillar, one foot propped against it. It was neither appropriate attire nor behavior, yet the youth managed to not seem off-putting.

He had short black hair, a slender neck, and his slightly oversized clothes and rolled-up sleeves revealed thin arms and fingers, making him appear free, clean, and very… sexy.

Cleanliness and sexiness were contradictions, yet together, they created a devilishly tempting allure that made one forget oneself, eager to conquer and possess, desperate to smear one’s colors on that blank slate.

When Seven turned his face, he did not disappoint Donald. his facial structure was somewhat European, not large but well-defined, yet it also bore a touch of Eastern softness, lightness, and a hint of ambiguity.

This mix of features, coupled with the slight indifference in Seven’s gaze when he first looked at him, left Donald unable to think of any word other than ‘sexy’ to describe that first sight.

Seven’s indifference only catalyzed this desire, so Donald always believed that trading the development rights of a couple of small islands in exchange for him was not a bad deal, despite Seven’s true identity being a surprise and somewhat embarrassing.

But when one reaches a point where they can materialize desires with material things, they often develop the illusion that they are above any moral standard, feeling omnipotent.

And so, when Donald set his sights on possessing Seven, nothing could stand in his way.

Not even blood ties.

He spread Mo Zimu’s legs to their limits, revealing his pale pink entrance, and meticulously prepared him. He had always been a considerate lover, and this time was no exception.

He started gently, but each thrust was relentless, plunging deep with every stroke, pinning Mo Zimu down as if nailing him to a spot from which he could not escape.

The pleasure was so intense that it teetered on the edge of agony, yet Mo Zimu couldn’t resist. The drugs had heightened his sensitivity, making every touch send shivers through him. Desire burned so fiercely it felt all-consuming, as if reducing even his soul to ashes.

Unlike Norton, Donald left no room for Mo Zimu to think. The aphrodisiac coursing through his veins stripped him of control, turning his own body into his worst enemy. Pleasure burned into his skin like a brand, leaving him utterly defenseless.

Donald’s pace grew faster and faster. Mo Zimu opened his eyes, hoarsely begging, “Please, don’t come inside, please…”

Donald gazed into his eyes, taking in their deep, watery green, a color impossible to forget. He kissed Mo Zimu’s soft earlobe and murmured, “Remember, you are mine.”

The moment the words left his lips, a hot surge rushed inside Mo Zimu. His entire body trembled as he cursed through gritted teeth, “You’re a beast! A monster!”

Donald replied lightly, “Seven, because you’re too weak, you let anyone who wants to possess you do so. Have you ever considered that it’s you who turns others into monsters?”

Mo Zimu let out a bitter laugh. A so-called noble, yet he spoke with a bandit’s logic.

The so-called upper class takes everything from you, then tells you it was your fault. You incited their greed, gave them the chance to commit crimes, tempted them. In the end, the weak become the root of all evil.

By morning, Mo Zimu was finally released from hell.

Donald got dressed and said, “Seven, I had some mini pancakes made for you. There are some snacks in the basket too.” He smiled. “Such a big boy, and you still like snacks, hmm?”

Mo Zimu lay there, staring at the ceiling as if he hadn’t heard a word.

Donald walked over, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and murmured, “See you next week, Seven.”