Mo Zimu was led to the building’s dining hall, a grand and luxurious space, with intricate murals, exquisite sculptures, and dazzling crystal chandeliers. It was every bit as opulent as a Baroque palace.

At the far end of the long dining table sat Norton, watching him with a polite smile. Yet, the look in his eyes, framed behind gold-rimmed glasses, filled Mo Zimu with an unspeakable sense of disgust.

“Have a seat, Seven,” he said.

Mo Zimu pulled out a chair and sat at the opposite end of the table.

A butler in a black-and-white uniform lifted the silver cloches on the table, revealing steaming dishes. Norton lowered his head for a short prayer.

Mo Zimu followed suit, bowing his head in thanks, though deep down, he had never believed God would protect him. And now, the law had failed him too.

Norton’s lips curled in faint approval at Mo Zimu’s composure before he gave a small nod. The meal proceeded in silence, with Norton displaying meticulous dining etiquette. He cut the lamb chop into even pieces and ate at a steady pace, chewing slowly.

When Mo Zimu had finished eating, Norton finally spoke, a faint smile on his lips. “Do you know why I invited you to dinner?”

Mo Zimu quietly shook his head. The knife he had used earlier was discreetly slipped into his pocket.

As though expecting Mo Zimu’s silence, Norton clasped his hands and chuckled. “It’s because I’ve always believed Chinese people are exceptionally intelligent. They truly understand art. Would you like to see some of your country’s art?”

Mo Zimu nodded again. Norton stood up, and the butler behind him immediately pulled out his chair.

“Old Allen, you’re dismissed,” Norton said with a nod.

The butler, who carried himself with the elegance of a proper English gentleman, bowed deeply before exiting with refined grace. Norton’s smile lingered, pleased by the butler’s display of courtesy.

Leading the way, he guided Mo Zimu through a side door and into a hallway lined with an array of art pieces displayed along the walls.

“You see, this is my collection of your country’s shadow puppets, from the Yuan Dynasty to the modern era. I admire your people’s creativity, engraving figures onto skin. Each one looks as if it’s alive. Don’t you think so?”

Mo Zimu hadn’t expected Norton to actually bring him to see art, so he simply nodded in perfunctory agreement. He walked past the wall-mounted pieces, each one crafted from leather, ranging from crude to exquisitely detailed.

As he moved farther back, nausea twisted in his stomach. The later pieces were tattoos, inked onto patches of human skin. Yellow. Black. White.

“Do you like them?” Norton’s voice was gentle, almost affectionate. “They all once belonged to living bodies. The ink came alive because of the flesh, the blood coursing beneath it… Oh, oh. This one. Saint Bartholomew, flayed alive for his faith. He’s my favorite. See how he holds the knife in one hand and his own skin in the other? Such profound symbolism.”

Norton stroked the glass frame, gazing reverently at the preserved human skin inside. “It took me three years to find the perfect piece, a coarse yet firm, powerful white hide to capture the essence of this giant.”

“But unfortunately,” he sighed, “the most crucial part has always eluded me. These wretches are all too filthy. Their hair reeks of savagery, cruelty, greed. Their blood runs black with sin, unworthy of divinity…”

A chilling suspicion clawed its way into Mo Zimu’s mind.

And then, Norton confirmed it.

“Michelangelo painted The Last Judgment across the Sistine Chapel ceiling. But I,” he said, eyes burning behind his gold-rimmed glasses, “I recreate it on the living warmth of human skin. The most vital piece has always been missing, the radiant Christ, standing in judgment, surrounded by the Twelve Apostles and the Virgin Mary. No one has ever been worthy enough to embody Him.”

His voice softened into something almost reverent. “But then, Seven, I met you. You will complete my masterpiece.”

In a sudden burst of desperation, Mo Zimu pulled out the knife hidden in his pocket and pressed it against Norton’s throat. His voice trembled with fury as he growled, “You sick, skin-flaying freak!”

But his vision blurred before he could act. A wave of weakness crashed over him. His body went limp.

Norton caught him carefully, as if cradling something precious. He shook his head and smiled. “Seven, you should feel honored. You will be the masterpiece’s most magnificent part.”

Mo Zimu was placed on the freshly cleared dining table. Norton carefully removed his glasses, studying his face with evident delight. “You haven’t disappointed me,” he murmured, his tone filled with satisfaction.

Slowly, he began unbuttoning Mo Zimu’s shirt, pulling it free from his trousers. His cold, clammy hands slid beneath the fabric, running over Mo Zimu’s smooth, bare back.

The touch felt vile, like a poisonous snake slithering across Mo Zimu’s skin.

Despite his usual composure, sweat beaded on his forehead. If he had the strength, he would have driven the knife into this damned serpent’s heart. But his body betrayed him, trembling uncontrollably as those hands continued their invasive exploration. Helpless, he lay still, like a lamb awaiting slaughter.

Norton pulled open Mo Zimu’s unbuttoned shirt, then unzipped his pants and slid them down to his calves.

“You’re beautiful, Seven… such a beautiful face, a beautiful body, beautiful skin, and such a perfect age,” he murmured, almost entranced.

His hand traced over Mo Zimu’s firm, perky ass, then stopped at his slender waist. “Here, this is where the Twelve Apostles will be,” he said, his fingers followed the line of his spine, gliding down to his tailbone before slipping between his cheeks. “This spot will mark the rebirth of Jesus.”

He caressed the lower right side of Mo Zimu’s ass. “Here… Bartholomew, holding his own flayed skin…” His fingers trailed to the other side. “And here’s Saint Peter, gripping the keys to heaven. Absolutely magnificent. We’ll start from here…”

Excitement surged through Norton, his breaths growing heavier. He ripped off Mo Zimu’s shirt, pants, and underwear, tossing them to the floor. Now completely naked, Mo Zimu was turned onto his back to face him completely.

Mo Zimu kept his eyes tightly shut. Norton’s gaze was enough to make him feel sick to his core.

Norton’s hand wrapped around Mo Zimu’s arousal, cool at first touch, yet warming in his palm. It fit just right, neither too large nor too small. The weight and shape of it felt natural in his grasp, effortlessly enticing. Between Mo Zimu’s long, toned legs, it pulsed faintly against his touch, as if responding to him.

Lowering his head, Norton teased the tip with his tongue, tracing along its sensitive skin before pressing soft kisses down its length. Then, inch by inch, he took it into his mouth.

A sharp tremor ran through Mo Zimu’s body. His eyes remained shut, but a breathy moan still slipped out. The deeper Norton’s mouth engulfed him, the more broken and uncontrollable his sounds became.

“You bastard! You sick freak! Let me go!” Mo Zimu yelled, his voice filled with anger and desperation. It was only then he realized that, though his limbs were immobilized, he could still speak.

He paused for a few seconds, then hurriedly said, “We can ne—ngh… ah…”

Norton buried his head between Mo Zimu’s thighs, his hands cradling the curve of his hips as he took him in with slow, deliberate movements. Yet his eyes never left the younger man’s face. Beneath the curtain of his black hair, his gaze was cold and ravenous, almost deranged, like a venomous snake fixated on its prey.

Mo Zimu fought desperately against the wave of pleasure crashing through him, but his breath hitched. Sweat trickled down his forehead, dampening his short black hair.

Norton’s fingers curled around his throbbing arousal, while his tongue circled the tip in slow, maddening strokes.

“Listen, I—ah…”

His words were swallowed by Norton’s tongue, twisted into something else entirely. A muffled whimper slipped from his lips.

“Bastard…” he cursed under his breath. Pleasure surged through him like a rising tide, lifting him to a peak only to pull him back down again.

He fought to suppress it, to resist, but his body betrayed him. Soft, breathy moans escaped his lips, clean and pure, like crystal-clear water untouched by the world.

Norton clearly loved those sounds.

Every time Mo Zimu’s voice steadied, he found new ways to provoke him, pushing him deeper into pleasure’s abyss.

Then, without warning, a slick finger pressed against his entrance and pushed inside. It glided in effortlessly, thrusting in and out, and Mo Zimu’s need only grew, clawing at him from within.

Just as he teetered on the edge, lost in a haze of arousal, a sharp pain suddenly cut through it like a blade.

His eyes flew open.

Norton held a red candle above his thigh, and droplets of hot wax dripped onto his skin, searing him. The sharp sting shattered the pleasure in an instant.

“Seven, do you know why I chose you?” He asked, his tone deadly serious. “Because you’re pure. You’re the cleanest person I’ve ever seen…”

He leaned in, his gaze soft as he studied Mo Zimu’s delicate skin, the sharp yet youthful contours of his face, and the slight curve of his lips.

“Abstinence suits you better.”

“…Fucking psycho…” Mo Zimu muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. Strangely, though, this torment was easier to endure than Norton’s mouth on him.

Norton flipped him over and slipped a round cotton cushion beneath his hips, lifting him up.

A chill ran over his exposed skin.

He heard the rustle of something being unwrapped, followed by the sharp scent of disinfectant.

Norton’s hands moved steadily, sanitizing his skin before tracing over it with a fine pen. Then came the needle.

The tattoo machine buzzed to life.

The first prick sent a sharp sting through him, pain blooming beneath his skin.

“Shit…” Mo Zimu cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth as the sensation spread.

Norton remained entirely focused, working in silence as he inked the tattoo.

The steady pricking of the needle against Mo Zimu’s skin brought a persistent pain, hovering at the edge of bearable. It left him feeling both drained and on edge.

“Do you know Saint Peter?” Norton asked suddenly.

“I don’t,” Mo Zimu replied curtly, the dull ache in his backside making his tone sharper than usual.

“He was Jesus’ first disciple, the greatest preacher, and the gatekeeper of Heaven,” Norton explained as he wiped the blood off Mo Zimu’s skin with a white towel.

Admiring the emerging image on the smooth curve of Mo Zimu’s ass, he added with satisfaction, “This spot couldn’t be more perfect for him.”

By the time dawn arrived, Mo Zimu was barely standing. A prison guard half-dragged him back to his cell.

Tom caught him, letting out a low chuckle. “So, how was it? Uncle Norton’s got some skills, huh?” His voice was light, mocking. “That dick of his is useless, but his hand and tongue are another story.”

The mention of Norton’s slimy hands and tongue brought a wave of nausea over Mo Zimu. He staggered to the wash basin and began retching uncontrollably.

“Shit,” Tom cursed. “Uncle Norton went that low to serve you, and you’re still disgusted? If the fuckers from B Block pinned you down in the showers and ran a train on you, you’d probably hang yourself.”

“Enough,” Tommy interrupted gruffly. “It’s time for yard break.”

Tom chuckled. “What do you say, Seven? Wanna head out for some fresh air?”

Mo Zimu splashed cold water over his face and took a few sips from the tap. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

Turning his back to the mirror, Mo Zimu discreetly pulled down one side of his pants. On his left ass cheek, just as Norton had hinted, was the tattoo of Saint Peter. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaled, then quickly pulled his pants back up. He walked to the door, ready to step outside.

The loud buzz of the security bell echoed through the cellblock, signaling the opening of the doors. Tommy led the group out of their cell.

Mo Zimu noticed immediately that the inmates moved in clusters, each group seemingly organized by their respective cellblocks.

As they passed one another, the glances exchanged were anything but friendly. There were leering looks, cold stares, apathetic gazes, and outright menacing expressions. It felt less like humans observing one another and more like predators sizing up prey, calculating strengths and weaknesses as if the people before them were already their next meal.

Standing near the door, Mo Zimu took it all in with a grim realization.

His body was still weary from the torment Norton had inflicted on him all night. The lingering effects of the anesthetic made his head swim slightly.

As the first rays of sunlight hit his face, he stumbled and lost his footing, accidentally bumping into someone.

“Sorry!” he said instinctively.

Right after, a deep voice followed. “What’s wrong, fish? Did Uncle Norton get you craving men?”

As soon as the words fell, Mo Zimu felt a hand grope his ass.