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.”

A wave of subdued laughter swept through the main hall.

Teabag smirked. “If Ivan says Seven is his, then according to the rules, I can pick him too. 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 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, sneering at 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, then added, “It’s against the rules.”

Teabag jabbed a finger at 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.

Ivan 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 for Mo Zimu, there was no victory in this defiance. 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.

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?

As if in answer, a sharp scream tore through the air outside. 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 Norton’s twisted games. Last time, he 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.

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

Upon entering the main gate, he saw two rows of bedrooms separated by a green-painted corridor. Powell stands at a doorway, saying, “On Couples’ Day, from 6 PM to 6 AM, you are allowed to make love, 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 finished speaking, the door swung open. Donald stood elegantly in the doorway, his voice gentle as he said, “Seven, it’s me!”

Mo Zimu quickly turns and runs, but he doesn’t get far before a black bodyguard, towering like a giant, catches him by the waist.

“Let me go!” Mo Zimu struggles, saying, “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 door closing behind him.

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

Mo Zimu’s entire body trembled, so terrified he could barely stand, hanging limp in the bodyguard’s grasp.

Donald stepped closer, gently caressing Mo Zimu’s face. “Seven… I’ve really missed you,” he murmured before lowering his head to place a soft kiss on his smooth cheek.

Mo Zimu sprang into action, aiming a sharp kick at Donald’s groin. But before he could follow through, Donald’s bodyguard seized his arm in a crushing grip. Pain shot through it as if it were about to snap, forcing him to halt.

“The first time I saw you, I never thought of you as mere livestock. You were more like a quiet little wild beast,” Donald says cheerfully.

Mo Zimu is pushed onto the bed, and Donald carefully removes his glasses, looking at him with extreme tenderness, then takes out a syringe, “This shot will leave you feeling relaxed and blissful. Trust me, I won’t hurt you.”

Mo Zimu panted heavily, his voice strained as he gritted his teeth. “Donald, how could you violate your own flesh and blood? Don’t you have any conscience?”

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’re different. You’re the only one I want to possess. The fact that you’re my son is just a coincidence…”

Mo Zimu watches the drug being slowly injected into his skin, choking up as he pleads, “Please, for the sake of my mother…”

Donald slowly unbuttoned Mo Zimu’s shirt, revealing his delicate collarbones. His light honey-colored skin was slightly damp from the struggle, beads of sweat trickling down his long, slightly protruding throat before disappearing into the alluring hollow below.

His green eyes suddenly become ravenous, his breathing grows urgent as he whispers softly, “What I love most about Miss Li is that she gave birth to you.”

The drug kicked in fast. Mo Zimu’s body weakened instantly, his limbs numb and unresponsive. He wanted to resist, but he couldn’t even lift a finger.

Donald lowered his head, licking Mo Zimu’s chest, his tongue slowly circling the small, sensitive peak. Mo Zimu shut his eyes as the drug took full effect. The unwanted stimulation sent tremors through his powerless body, and he bit down hard on his tongue, desperately suppressing any sound.

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.

With what little strength he had left, Mo Zimu swung a weak fist at Donald’s face. He missed. His sluggish movements were no match for Donald, who retaliated instantly with a sharp slap that split his lip and sent him reeling back onto the pillow.

Donald began to undress. “Seven, I had John hold you down not because I fear your resistance, but because I fear hurting you by accident.”

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, more so than most.

Now fully naked, he climbed atop Mo Zimu.
His gaze lingered on the tattoo as he muttered, “Seven, you need to be stronger. In the Sutherland family, we may die, but we should never be humiliated.” His fingers pinched St. Peter as he added, “Though it is indeed very sexy… too sexy.”

“If one should not be humiliated, then what are you doing straddling me?”

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

“I think you’re humiliating yourself.”

Donald laughed. In his youth, he had been strikingly handsome, his distinguished status and charm captivating many, including Mo Zimu’s mother. Now older, time had not diminished his looks. Instead, his maturity only enhanced his appeal.

Many socialites viewed a night with him as a badge of honor, with some even boosting their status from just one night spent 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 wore a simple white tracksuit, standing outside the grand entrance with one foot propped against a large pillar. Neither his attire nor his posture was appropriate for the setting, yet he didn’t seem out of place.

He had short black hair and a slender neck. His slightly oversized clothes, with sleeves casually rolled up, revealed thin arms and delicate fingers, giving him an air of freedom, purity, and an undeniable… sex appeal.

Cleanliness and sexiness were contradictions, yet together, they created a dangerously enticing allure. It made people lose themselves, driven by the urge to conquer, to possess, to leave their mark on that blank canvas.

When Seven turned his face, he did not disappoint him. His features had a touch of European structure, well-defined yet not overly large, combined with the softness and delicate lightness of the East, creating an air of subtle 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 fueled Donald’s desire. He always believed that trading the development rights of a few small islands for him was a worthwhile deal. Even if Seven’s true identity was unexpected and somewhat embarrassing, it didn’t change his obsession.

But when a person reaches a point where they can turn desires into reality through material wealth, they often fall into the illusion that they are above morality, believing themselves omnipotent. And so, when Donald set his sights on possessing Seven, nothing could stand in his way.

Not even blood ties.

Donald positioned Mo Zimu carefully, taking his time as he prepared him. He had always been a considerate lover, and this time was no exception. He began slowly, but his movements were firm and steady, holding Mo Zimu in place with a grip that left no room for 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 him 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, not 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. Hatred and humiliation twisted in his chest as he choked out through gritted teeth, “You’re a beast! A monster!”

Holding him close, 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 hollow, bitter laugh. A so-called noble, yet he spoke with the logic of a thief.

It was always the same with people like him, taking everything they wanted and then twisting the blame back on the victim. They justified their greed by blaming the powerless, claiming they were provoked, tempted, or led astray. In the end, they twisted the story until the weak were painted as 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.”