Just as Mo Zimu pulled out the chair, Rong Qing’s voice rang out, calm but cutting. “This is how you always are, isn’t it? Just like with Lin Lin. He lived for you and died for you, but when he disappeared, you didn’t even bother to ask. You let him be cut in a hospital, piece by piece, as if he had never existed in your life.”

Mo Zimu lowered his head slightly. He took off his glasses, wiped the lenses gently with his slender index finger, and replied, “Lin Lin was different from you.”

Yes, Merlin was different. He might have been his guardian, an unexpected stroke of luck for which he was grateful. But when he was gone, he was gone. He felt no resentment toward him for disappearing without a word. And he never dreamed of Merlin the way he did of Rong Qing, whose voice in his dreams condemned him to hell.

Mo Zimu opened the door and walked out. The stocky prison guard waiting outside frowned slightly but wordlessly led him toward the registration office.

“Kid, don’t think that knowing some rich lover means you can strut around here. Remember, in this place, you’re just a dog.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“What did you say?”

“In this place, I’m just a dog, Officer Powell,” Mo Zimu replied after glancing at the man’s badge.

Even though his attitude was impeccable, Powell instinctively felt that this kid was trouble. He snorted and shoved Mo Zimu toward the registration room, muttering under his breath, “Know your place, you yellow pig.”

The registration room was a Gothic-inspired chamber with high ceilings and massive columns. Standing on a raised platform was Warden Norton, a middle-aged man with pale, clean-shaven skin.

He was dressed in a meticulously tailored three-piece suit, a silver pocket watch chain hanging elegantly from his vest. His gold-rimmed glasses had thin lenses, ensuring nothing obstructed his sharp, penetrating gaze.

He shot a displeased look at Mo Zimu, clearly irritated that he had missed the orientation speech, regardless of who was to blame for the delay.

Mo Zimu scanned the room, taking in the gathered inmates. To his surprise, they weren’t all young. Their ages varied widely, from adolescents to older men.

“Come here, you yellow pig!”

The head guard, Adolf, was a classic French-American, with brown hair, deeply sunken eyes, a hooked nose, and a strict, thin-lipped mouth. His stature was short compared to other Europeans, but his most distinctive feature was his large mouth, which made his shouts particularly commanding.

Mo Zimu stepped forward.

Despite his slender frame, he was still half a head taller than Adolf, which visibly irritated the guard. Adolf raised his baton, ready to strike this deceptively frail-looking boy. However, before the blow could land, the warden’s voice interrupted.

“That’s enough, Adolf. Let the boy finish his registration,” Norton said with a calm smile. Adolf’s face burned with frustration, but he reluctantly lowered the baton and stalked off to find another victim.

Norton approached Mo Zimu and said, “Son, I hope you’ll learn the rules here. Rules are everything. I’m Uncle Norton. You may have come from God, but here, you belong to me.”

Before Mo Zimu could respond, a blood-curdling scream echoed nearby. A blond boy with a handsome face had been struck brutally in the stomach by Adolf. The sickening sound of ribs cracking was audible, sending chills through everyone present.

Finally satisfied, Adolf barked in fury, “Remember, this move is the essence of this place. Don’t let me see you raising your front hooves too high. You’re all pigs here, every single one of you!”

Fear spread across the faces of the prisoners. Only Norton remained unbothered, his calm demeanor unchanged. He said evenly, “Obedience is the most important rule here. Second to that is staying in your place. But the number one rule in this facility is this: don’t ever make Uncle Norton repeat a rule.”

“Understood, Warden,” Mo Zimu replied calmly.

The prisoners lined up to enter the security screening room. Unlike the shadowy gloom outside, this area was starkly modern. Bright electronic security gates, overhead lights, and a sterile environment greeted them. The process began with identity registration, followed by queuing for photographs and fingerprint collection, and finally, a strip search.

Throughout this ordeal, Adolf’s shouts, the sharp cracks of his baton striking flesh, and the resulting screams of pain echoed in the background.

Norton did not leave after giving his instructions. Instead, he watched the entire process intently. His sharp eyes scanned the inmates’ stripped bodies, pausing briefly as they landed on Mo Zimu.

It was the body of a young man, slender yet not frail. His physique was marked by smooth, flowing lines, as if every inch of his skin had been meticulously crafted. What stood out most was his delicate and flawless skin, a pale tone with a faint honey hue typical of Asians. It gleamed like lustrous silk, giving the impression that just looking at it, you could feel its tautness and elasticity.

Mo Zimu sensed the gaze lingering on his back, sticky and invasive, leaving him with a deep sense of disgust.

As he finished dressing, a sudden thud came from the nearby shower area. Turning his head, he saw the blond boy from earlier collapsed on the ground, curled up and writhing in pain, barely conscious.

Adolf’s bellow cut through the room as he rushed over, his heavy footsteps silencing the already tense atmosphere. Everyone stopped what they were doing, stealing furtive glances at the commotion.

Mo Zimu suddenly raised his hand and called out, “Warden, this man needs immediate medical attention!”

Adolf arrived and snarled. “You stupid pig, stop faking it and get up!”

Norton cast a glance at Mo Zimu before barking, “Enough, Adolf! Take him to the infirmary!”

Adolf’s beast-like glare locked onto Mo Zimu, sealing an unspoken grudge.

Once the procedures were complete, the new prisoners, dressed in light blue uniforms, lined up and were escorted to their cells. They marched in single file, crossing the wire-enclosed exercise yard toward the main building.

As they passed by, Mo Zimu glanced toward the castle-like structures built along the hillside. He had the unsettling feeling that someone was watching them from the battlements.

“Stop looking around! Keep moving!” a guard shouted from behind, snapping Mo Zimu’s attention back to the path ahead.

—-

Beyond the prison walls, a group of men lowered their binoculars. One of them, a dark-haired young man with tanned skin, took a drag of his cigarette and scoffed, “This batch looks like a bunch of damn sheep. Boring as hell.”

“Watch your mouth, Noè!” a sharply built, muscular man with brown hair snapped back, his rugged features hinting at a Colombian heritage.

The Italian man called Noè smirked. “Fine, fine. At least Marcia’s got plenty of fresh asses to break in this time.”

“Enough!”

The voice came from a young man with pale golden hair, his tone calm but commanding. Both Noè and Marcia immediately fell silent, clearly wary of him.

“Not all of them are dull,” he continued, his gaze lingering on the prison yard. “That Asian kid looks promising.”

His golden hair was lighter than the others’, almost unnaturally pure in color, giving him an ethereal look. His features were both sharp and delicate, a striking combination that lent him a dangerously alluring beauty.

The young men were all dressed in dark uniforms resembling military attire. Their already tall and lean frames carried a rugged, imposing air.

Marcia glanced over and asked, “Geoffrey, are we holding the hunt this season?”

Geoffrey smiled faintly, then turned to another strikingly handsome blond youth beside him. “Benjamin, what do you think?”

Benjamin gave a shy smile. “It’s your call.”

“And you, Kōsō?” Geoffrey’s smile remained as he shifted his gaze toward a black-haired Asian man standing a short distance away, his expression dark and unreadable.

“Whatever.”

Noè let out a laugh, his tone laced with mockery. “If we don’t hold the hunt, he’s going to get hungry.”

“Then let’s go ahead with it.” Geoffrey’s eyes flickered, his beige irises ringed with a faint black halo. When he suddenly widened them, his gaze was as sharp as a blade piercing outward.

Excitement flashed across the five men’s faces. Noè chuckled darkly. “This should be fun. Let’s just hope it doesn’t turn into another bloodbath.”

—-

The main building bore the appearance of a colossal beehive, divided into three levels—upper, middle, and lower. Its grim, fortress-like structure radiated a sense of cold and foreboding. It felt less like a prison and more like an enormous, orderly cage.

Each cell measured roughly ten square meters, with three solid concrete walls that were windowless and stifling. The fourth wall, made of sturdy iron bars, exposed the cramped interior to the watchful eyes of the corridor. Each cell housed four inmates, with bunk beds lining one wall. In the far corner stood a compact metal sink and toilet unit, accompanied by a small wooden table and two rows of floating wooden shelves.

The air in the cellblock buzzed with chatter, as noisy as a bustling beehive. Dozens of prisoners pressed against the iron bars, watching the newcomers with leering grins, licking their lips, shaking the bars with excitement.

Big-Mouthed Adolf stomped along the corridor, banging on the metal rails and roaring for the “filthy pigs” to shut up.

Some prisoners didn’t react at all. A few stared blankly into space, others muttered curses under their breath. Some were jerking off, some were shooting up, too deep in their own highs to care. The stench of sweat, cum, and stale smoke hung thick in the air, seeping into everything.

Mo Zimu was assigned to the second floor of C Block in cell C204.

When the heavy door creaked open, he stepped into a cell already occupied by two others. One of them, a scrawny American youth, froze mid-motion when he saw Mo Zimu enter. His face twisted with a mixture of surprise and annoyance before he muttered under his breath.

“Shit,” he said, the word dripping with disdain.

Nearby, an older Puerto Rican man with dark skin and a somewhat blank expression spoke in heavily accented English. “Is it just you? They were supposed to send us two this time.”

Mo Zimu replied, “I think the other one was taken to the infirmary.”

The American youth let out a long sigh. “Must’ve been that loudmouth Froggy’s handiwork again.”

He seemed to have regained his composure and extended his hand. “I’m Tom. Your roommate from now on, and more importantly, your comrade. That old cripple over there is Tommy, the Puerto Rican guy.”

Mo Zimu shook Tom’s hand and noticed how cold it was, so icy that it sent a shiver down his spine. Tom chuckled and said, “Your hand is really warm!”

Tommy turned his head and extended his right hand. It was only then that Mo Zimu noticed it was partially missing, with thick, rough calluses where some of his fingers should have been. When he grasped it, the surface was sharp and abrasive to the touch.

Tommy said coldly, “Your hand’s too soft.”

Mo Zimu withdrew his hand, and Tom laughed heartily. “Don’t mind him. Interpreting Tommy’s words can be a challenge.”

“Are you nearsighted?” Tom pointed to Mo Zimu’s glasses.

“Not exactly. I had some trouble with my vision for a while.”

“Oh, great, another cripple!” Tom groaned, rubbing his forehead. After a moment, he added, “So, can you see now?”

“Yes,” Mo Zimu replied.

“It won’t happen again, right?”

Mo Zimu frowned slightly, finding his roommate’s fixation on his eyesight a bit odd, but he replied politely, “It shouldn’t. The doctors said it was psychosomatic.”

Tom let out a long breath and exclaimed, “Thank God, thank God! Mammon needs your eyes.”

“Are they that important?”

“In here, only the brain-dead are allowed,” Tom joked.

Mo Zimu raised his dark eyebrows, chose an upper bunk against the wall, and threw his belongings up onto it.

“This prison used to be a juvenile detention center called Samson Academy,” Tom explained. “For some reason, probably overcrowding in nearby prisons, they started taking in adult like me and Tommy. Over time, adult prisoners outnumbered the juveniles by a lot.”

Mo Zimu nodded. “So, Samson Academy doesn’t exist anymore?”

Tom and Tommy both laughed. “Everyone in this hellhole, even the big shots in A Block, wishes it would disappear. But the truth is, it’s still right next door, handpicking its meals from the menu.”

Mo Zimu frowned slightly but chose not to ask why.

Tom went on, “Only those with enough power get to enter Samson Academy. It’s where you’ll find mafia heirs, young masters of assassin organizations, and even certain princes with a taste for blood. In Mammon Prison, there’s an event called Hunter Night, held every season. Here in the main block, we’re just the prey, while the real hunters are over at Samson Academy. Each cellblock forms a team, so you, me, Tommy, and that unlucky bastard in the infirmary are in the same group.”

Mo Zimu took a deep breath and glanced out through the iron bars.

“Of course, even outside of Hunter season, this place is far from safe.” Tom grinned. “You’ve met Uncle Norton, right? Well, around here, ‘Uncle Norton’ has another meaning. It’s what we call sexual harassment.”

He let out a chuckle before adding, “Big-Mouthed Adolf is a freak. Give him the chance, and he’ll strip the skin off your back. And B Block is full of homosexuals who have a thing for Asian scents. If I were you, I’d stay as far away from them as possible.”

Tom hadn’t even finished his rundown when Powell, the stocky guard, approached.

Smacking his baton against the bars, he barked, “94941, step out! The warden wants to see you!”

Tom cursed under his breath, “Shit.”

He leaned in and whispered to Mo Zimu, “No matter what he does to you, just endure it. Trust me, he won’t actually do anything.”

Mo Zimu nodded. He had only wanted to pass these five years quietly and unnoticed, but it seemed he had been wrong.

In his mind, he could almost see Rong Qing’s knowing smile and hear his voice saying, “One day, you’ll regret this.”

Mo Zimu took a deep breath.

No, I won’t regret it. This was my choice.