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

Mo Zimu closed his eyes and turned the faucet to full force, letting the water wash over his skin, as if trying to remove every trace of dirt, every bit of filth that clung to him.

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

Mo Zimu turned off the faucet and walked out completely naked. 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 backside. 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, “Here, there are only two ways to survive. First, be ruthless, so ruthless that no one’s life matters except your own. Second, endure. Endure until you forget what it means to be human. Only then will you have a chance to stay alive.”

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 just in time to see a colleague rushing toward him from behind. A moment of confusion flickered across his face before pain, white-hot and blinding, exploded through him.

A pencil had been rammed straight into his left eye.

Agony tore through his skull. Warm blood spilled down his cheek, dripping onto his collar.

He screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure suffering. His knees buckled, his vision spun, and the world around him shrank into unbearable pain.

Mo Zimu stood over him, his eyes wide. His fingers still gripped the pencil, frozen in place. For a second, it looked like he was thinking about pushing it in deeper, but ultimately, he let it go.

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 on the ground, handcuffed and lying still.

A pencil sticking out of 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 him into the cell, and with a final click, the only flickering 60-watt bulb went out, plunging him into absolute darkness.

The air was thick, damp, and stale, pressing in from all sides like a living thing. Mo Zimu curled into himself, but the cold still found him, creeping through his skin and sinking into his bones. It carried the scent of decay, of time forgotten, of those who had once been trapped here and never left.

He lost all sense of time.

The walls were his only companions, slick with moisture, their slow trickle the only sound in the suffocating silence. Hunger gnawed at him, but food came sparingly. At unpredictable intervals, a hardened scrap of moldy bread would be thrown in. He forced himself to eat, chewing until his jaw ached, swallowing against his dry throat. When thirst became unbearable, he licked at the damp walls, the earthy bitterness barely quenching anything.

There was nothing to do but endure. He curled tighter into himself, clinging to what little warmth remained.

Then one day, when another piece of bread hit the floor, he didn’t even try to reach for it. He was barely holding on, drifting in and out of consciousness. Too weak. Too tired to care.

The light flickered back on. A shadow loomed over him.

Strong arms lifted his limp body. He was weightless in their grip, each step jolting through his frail frame. Stairs. So many stairs. The air shifted, no longer stagnant, carrying a hint of warmth. Then suddenly, fresh air.

It flooded his lungs, crisp and cool, almost painful after the stale rot he had been breathing. Only then, as the world brightened around him, did he realize how suffocating the darkness had truly been.

He seemed to be back in the visitation room. Through blurry eyes, he made out Powell standing outside the door, his figure vaguely familiar yet distant.

He was placed on the bed, but this time, “Donald” didn’t pounce on him. Instead, 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 injected the intravenous drug into Mo Zimu. 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, where Powell, wearing an eyepatch over his left eye, stood with a fawning smile.

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

Powell immediately responded, “He’s yours, Mr. Cruz. Enjoy yourself!” A cruel glint flashed in his eyes, his twisted expression stretching into a grin. “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.

The first shot cut him off. The second sent him staggering. The third dropped him to the floor.

Rong Qing didn’t stop. His face was grim, his movements precise and methodical. He reloaded with eerie calm, then emptied another magazine into Powell’s convulsing body. Each shot was deliberate, carrying the full weight of his hatred.

Spent shell casings clattered onto the floor. Smoke curled in the air.

“He should’ve killed you,” Rong Qing said coldly. “Leaving a beast alive is a mistake. You finish what you start, or don’t start at all.”

Mo Zimu barely opened his eyes. Through the fading haze of consciousness, he heard the sharp crack of gunfire, followed by Powell’s strangled screams. Desperate. Agonized. Then, silence swallowed everything whole.

The gunshots echoed through the vast compound, stirring 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. Got what he deserved. Shame about his skin, though. Boss, you could’ve used it for tattoos.”

Norton ran his fingers over a piece of tanned human skin, its surface smooth like polished leather. “Frankly, Western skin is too rough. Lacks the delicate texture of Asian skin. That’s why silk has always been the finest for embroidery. Have you ever seen Chinese embroidery on burlap?”

Unwilling to let Norton insult 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.

He lifted a hand, hesitating just before his fingers could reach that flawless skin. Then, without touching him, he let it fall back to his side.

Mo Zimu slept deeply through the night. By morning, he stirred from a groggy dream of fresh air, a soft bed, and a friendly landlady’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 guardian 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. “Don’t just tell me this is the end. I want it to be over completely. I never want to see you again. Whatever happens to me is none of your business. So do me a favor and stay the hell out of my life.”

Rong Qing let out a low chuckle. “Still so confident, aren’t you? But this is Mammon. There’s no Rainbow Bar for you to play king, no Merlin to keep the wolves at bay. Two weeks in, and you’re already barely human. Think 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. Without saying anything further, he opened the door and walked out, moving 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 somewhere.

Shortly after, a guard stepped into the visitation room and spoke coldly. “You can leave now.”

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 crossed the yard, he caught sight of inmates clustered in small groups, their hushed conversations carrying an air of unease. Whatever they were discussing, it was something big.

When he walked past, several inmates turned their eyes on him. Their gazes held curiosity, but there was something else beneath it, something harder to read. It felt like they were measuring him or perhaps, for the first time, acknowledging him as one of their own.

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

And he was right.