Chapter 5.2

The visiting area had a bathroom in much better condition than those in the main building. Presumably, Powell didn’t want Seven to grow suspicious, so he deliberately had him bathe in there before bringing him here.

Mo Zimu closed his eyes and turned the faucet to its maximum, letting the water wash over his skin again and again.

“Hurry up! Don’t waste time!” the prison medic in charge of visitation inspections shouted.

Mo Zimu turned off the faucet and walked out completely naked, seemingly calm. The prison medic, a relatively young guard, was momentarily stunned when he saw his face. Then he smiled and said, “No wonder Powell sold you for such a high price. You’re so beautiful, just too beautiful!”

“Thank you,” Mo Zimu replied indifferently before bending over to allow the guard to check him.

The young guard set the clipboard he was holding on a nearby stool, picked up a flashlight, and shone it on Mo Zimu’s ass. It was swollen and red, clearly abused, but not to the point of causing serious physical damage.

Unlike the usual procedure, the guard didn’t insert his finger to check for contraband. Instead, he said, “All clear!”

Then, with a sigh, he added, “In Mammon Prison, you’ve got two rules. First, be ruthless. Be so ruthless that no one else’s life matters but your own. Second, endure. Endure until you stop seeing yourself as human. Only then might you have a chance to survive.”

As he spoke, Mo Zimu had already finished dressing. He walked to the door, turned around, and said, “Congratulations on your wedding!”

The young guard froze. Lowering his head, he saw the clipboard on the stool and noticed the honeymoon travel tickets tucked beneath it were now exposed. The pencil that had been there was gone.

He cursed, “Shit!” and dashed out in panic.

Mo Zimu had already reached the outer lobby. His pace was steady, neither fast nor slow. The short, stout Powell was standing there, holding a coffee and laughing loudly with others.

“Oh my God, he screamed all night. So thrilling…” Powell mimicked the screams, drawing roaring laughter from the two guards across from him.

“I bet he loved it. Those sounds made me want to go in and have a round myself!”

In the midst of his bragging, someone’s distant shout cut through, “Watch out!”

Powell turned his head and caught a glimpse of a colleague rushing toward him from behind. It was the last thing his left eye would ever see.

In the next instant, searing pain exploded through him.

A pencil had been driven straight into his eye.

Powell screamed in agony. Mo Zimu stood wide-eyed, seemingly contemplating pushing the pencil in further but ultimately giving up.

The two stunned guards snapped out of their daze, rushing over to pin Mo Zimu to the ground. They forced his head down and wrenched his arms behind his back.

Powell, still screaming, drew his gun, but a guard grabbed him, “Powell, calm down!”

“Let me go, Mike! I’m going to kill this bastard!” He roared.

By the time Norton and the loud-mouthed Adolf arrived, Mo Zimu was already handcuffed on the ground, lying obediently.

A pencil jutted from Powell’s left eye, blood streaming down his face as he howled in agony.

“Shit!” Adolf cursed, yanking out his baton and striking Mo Zimu mercilessly. Mo Zimu curled up on the ground, shielding his head as the blows rained down.

Norton frowned. “Enough. Lock him in solitary confinement. No one lets him out without my orders.”

Two tall prison guards dragged Mo Zimu away. They descended countless flights of stairs within the castle-like structure until they reached a completely dark, sealed-off basement cell. The only sound there was the occasional drip of water.

They tossed Mo Zimu into the cell and turned off the single flickering, dim 60-watt bulb.

Mo Zimu curled into himself, but the damp and eerie underground air still seeped through, chilling him to the bone.

No one knew how many days had passed with Mo Zimu locked inside. Food was rarely delivered. Every two or three days, a piece of hard, moldy bread was tossed in. Water seeped from the walls, and when desperation took over, he licked at it for even the slightest relief.

Time lost all meaning. Huddled in a corner, he focused only on enduring. One day, when another piece of bread landed on the floor, he simply stared at it, too weak to move.

Half-conscious, he noticed the light flickering back on. Someone lifted him up, and he felt himself being carried up flight after flight of stairs. Before long, he was back on the surface, breathing in the fresh air. It was the first time he realized how comforting it was just to be above ground.

He seemed to be back in the visitation room. Through blurry eyes, he saw Powell outside the door. This time, Powell wore an eyepatch, his face twisted in a vicious expression as he glared at him.

He was placed back on the same bed, but this time, “Donald” did not pounce on him. He sat quietly by the bedside, gazing at him.

Mo Zimu smirked to himself. Good. After so many days, I must not smell too great.

But Donald still wasn’t done with him. Mo Zimu felt the faint sting of a needle pricking his skin again.

He no longer had the strength to resist. Instead, he allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness.

Rong Qing watched as the doctor pushed the syringe into Mo Zimu’s skin. Then, in a calm tone, he asked, “Has his entire body been examined?”

“Yes, Mr. Cruz,” the doctor replied respectfully. “This gentleman has only minor external injuries and slight malnutrition. Otherwise, he is in good health.”

Rong Qing nodded and stepped outside. Powell was there, wearing an eyepatch and flashing a series of ingratiating smiles.

“He’s mine for tonight,” Rong Qing said.

Powell immediately responded, “He’s yours, Mr. Cruz. Enjoy yourself!” A cruel glint flashed across his twisted expression as he added, “For free, Mr. Cruz.”

Rong Qing smiled. “You’re too kind.” As he spoke, he pulled out a pair of soft black leather gloves and slipped them onto his slender fingers. Then, reaching into his coat, he retrieved something and smiled again. “Do you know what Seven did wrong?”

Powell froze, but his expression quickly shifted to terror as he saw the gun in Rong Qing’s hand. “Sir… Mr. Cruz!” he stammered.

Before he could finish his sentence, Rong Qing fired one shot after another into his body. Then, with deliberate calmness, he pulled out another magazine and continued shooting at the twitching man until the bullets were spent.

Spent shell casings scattered across the floor as he coldly declared, “If he hurt you, he should have killed you. If you can’t kill a beast, you shouldn’t let it bleed!”

Hearing the gunfire, Mo Zimu barely opened his eyes. He heard Powell’s agonized screams, then everything fell silent.

The gunshots echoed through the large warehouse, stirring up excitement among the prisoners. “Whoa, are we celebrating the Chinese New Year? All that crackling and popping.”

Big-Mouth Adolf spat on the ground. “That fat bastard hoarded so much money in secret. He got what he deserved. Shame about his skin, though. Boss, you could’ve used it for tattoos.”

Norton caressed a beautifully tanned piece of human skin artwork. “Frankly, Western skin is too rough compared to the delicate texture of Asian skin. That’s why silk has always been the best for embroidery. Have you ever seen Chinese embroidery on burlap?”

Unwilling to let Norton put down his own kind, Big-Mouth Adolf sneered, “Boss, that’s because white people are the superior race.”

Norton lifted his gaze and said coldly, “Then pigskin must be even rougher. Now get lost, froggy.”

Adolf angrily pushed back his chair and stormed off. Norton sighed and muttered in annoyance, “Fucking brute.”

Rong Qing sat watching Mo Zimu, who lay on the wide pillow. His forehead was full and smooth, his lashes long, and his half-lidded eyes always carried a careless expression, as if nothing and no one mattered to him.

Rong Qing raised a hand as if to touch his forehead, but just before his fingers could reach the flawless skin, he stopped.

Mo Zimu slept deeply through the night. By morning, he stirred from a groggy dream of fresh air, a soft bed, and a friendly landlord’s voice waking him up. He was standing by the emerald green Danube River, playing a tune on his violin, then picking up the sandwich prepared by the landlady, kiss her cheek, and whisper, “Ich liebe dich.”

When he opened his eyes, the high ceiling above him reminded him he wasn’t in a cramped apartment by the Vienna river, but in Mammon Prison’s castle-like fortress.

“You’re awake.”

Mo Zimu turned his head and saw Rong Qing sitting by the window. He wore a black trench coat and held a cup of tea in his hand. His gaze, as always, remained indifferent and devoid of any emotion.

“May I ask… what are you doing here?” Mo Zimu propped himself up with both hands, slowly sitting upright and leaning against the pillow. Only after speaking did he realize how hoarse his voice had become.

Rong Qing took a sip of tea and said, “I’ve already sent someone to contact your sponsor in Austria. I’ll be handling the paperwork to adopt you. Once everything is finalized, I’ll transfer you directly to Florida.”

Mo Zimu closed his eyes briefly and then said, “Haven’t you taken enough from me already? What else do you want to strip away?”

Rong Qing lowered his gaze slightly and replied calmly, “No, quite the opposite. I intend for this to stop here.”

Mo Zimu turned his face, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as if mocking him. “End… So you’re done taking revenge on me?”

“Yes.” Rong Qing took another sip of tea, his voice just as calm. “So you don’t have to worry. In Florida, you’ll receive better care.”

Mo Zimu pulled his knees up, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. “I appreciate you saying this is the end, but I want more than that. I want us to be done. Forever. I don’t ever want to see you again. As for me, I’ll take care of myself. You don’t need to concern yourself anymore.”

Rong Qing chuckled lightly. “You’re always so confident, but have you ever considered this? This is Mammon. There’s no Rainbow Bar here for you to thrive in, and no Merlin to shield you from the hands of predators. It’s been only two weeks, and you’re already neither human nor ghost. Think it over carefully…”

He placed his teacup on the table beside him, stood up, and said, “Seven, if you go to Florida, I promise I won’t appear in front of you again.”

When he reached the door, Mo Zimu called out to him, “Rong Qing!”

Rong Qing’s hand rested on the doorknob, but he didn’t turn back. Instead, he said, “Seven, I still hope you’ll take a few more days to think it through. There’s no rush.”

“No need to think. Do you know why I’m called Seven?”

Rong Qing tilted his head slightly and saw Mo Zimu’s eerily calm expression.

“Because I was born on a Sunday, a weekend,” Mo Zimu said. “My mother told me that on that day, God was resting, so I should never count on Him for anything. I once did, and she was right. So, Rong Qing, stop trying to play God for me.”

Rong Qing lowered his head slightly and without saying anything further, he opened the door and walked out. He walked down the long corridor, past the waiting guards.

“Young Master, are we heading back?” one of them asked quietly.

Rong Qing didn’t answer but instead walked across the yard, heading toward the Samson Academy.

“You can return to your cell now,” a guard entered and said coldly.

Mo Zimu got up. After at least a week of confinement, his steps were still a bit unsteady, though he seemed to be in less discomfort than before. As he made his way across the yard, he noticed groups of prisoners huddled together, whispering amongst themselves. It seemed like something big was happening.

When he passed by, several prisoners turned to look at him. Their expressions were complicated. It was as if they were sizing him up, or perhaps, finally acknowledging him as one of their own.

The word “Hunter” echoed through the air. Mo Zimu thought to himself, Looks like the quiet days are coming to an end.

And he was right.