Chapter 211: How Nice, This Prison

The prison lights are forever a pale, crisp white, illuminating every corner until it is spotless, as if this place were the brightest spot in the whole world — lights that never go out, never giving darkness any soil to take root in.

In the corridor, heart-rending screams ring out from time to time; the voices are even more miserable than yesterday, leaving a bad taste in Feng Mu's heart.

"Can you hand over the money tomorrow? I'll give you one last chance — organize your words and answer me again."

"No money. You should know what having no money in the Second Prison means, right?"

Electric batons crackle and snap as they swing heavily, like dice of fate randomly landing on each prisoner's head.

Bones cave and fracture, fresh blood spurts, the thick stench of blood permeates the entire prison, turning it into a slaughterhouse.

Some livestock are beaten severely and wail on the ground; some are beaten to death alive, their corpses dragged off to be incinerated.

Still others kneel on all fours, begging for mercy as a layer of fat is ruthlessly scraped off them, scraped until they are nothing but skin and bone, living a life worse than death.

In just a single day, who knows how many electric batons were broken inside the prison; even two unlucky prison guards had their batons explode, shattering their palms and half their arms.

This turn of events caused the rising and falling screams in the corridor to weaken somewhat; the frequency with which the prison guards swung their batons noticeably dropped, giving many prisoners a chance to catch their breath.

That same noon, the prison's Logistics Guard Department received numerous applications to replace electric batons.

Feng Mu patrols the corridor, watching the guards carried out on stretchers, arms broken, wailing incessantly; he squeezes a look of compassion onto his face and sends them a sympathetic gaze.

Wang Cong steps out of the Captain's Office, paces slowly to stand behind Feng Mu, his gaze equally heavy as he sees the stretchers off; his palm unconsciously tightens around the electric baton in his hand.

"You're back. Did the talk with the Prison Warden go smoothly?" Feng Mu asks in a gentle tone.

Wang Cong mimics Feng Mu, squeezing an equally sincere smile onto his face: "Mm, fairly smooth!"

The two exchange a smile; in this blood-scented corridor they are like two "fellow travelers" who rise from the mud unstained, their whole bodies exuding a clear, fresh air utterly unlike this prison.

"Feng Mu?"

"Mm, what is it?"

"Thank you. It was you who helped me find light in the Second Prison."

"You're welcome. We help each other."

The two nod in mutual understanding, avoiding each other's eyes, then scan the surroundings at the corpses being dragged from the cells; both their eyes flicker with depths and coldness the other has not glimpsed.

"How nice. Why did I never discover before how beautiful this prison is? No matter — from now on, I will become the person who makes this prison even better." Wang Cong murmurs in his heart.

"How nice. Enticing fragrance everywhere; once the reconstruction is complete, I can serve it all up on the table and eat it bit by bit." Feng Mu's heart is full of anticipation.

"Cover a shift for me. I'm going back to my room to use the computer, manipulate the money in my account." Wang Cong's voice speaking to Feng Mu has become confident and assured.

In Feng Mu's pitch-black pupils, red threads seem to flicker in and out of existence; he glances lightly at the electric baton at Wang Cong's waist and answers with a smile: "Of course."

Wang Cong turns and returns to the duty room; after entering he quietly locks the door behind him.

He is the one who pulls the most night shifts in A District, which also makes him the person most familiar with this duty room.

With almost no effort, Wang Cong finds two insulated buckets in the neat, uniform storage cabinets.

They lie quietly in the corner of the cabinet; one emits a faint heat, the other feels icy to the touch.

He carefully takes out the two insulated buckets one by one, gently unscrewing their lids. One bucket is empty, washed spotlessly clean; the other is packed full, the aroma of food assaulting the nose.

Wang Cong merely takes a light sniff, and that fragrance pierces his senses like an electric current, stirring a restlessness deep in his body; his tongue involuntarily secretes saliva.

"This rice smells so good; there must be precious medicinal herbs or seasonings inside — definitely not cheap, right?"

Wang Cong lightly rubs his dry, sore eye sockets; an inexplicable irritability spreads through his heart. He forcefully screws the lunch box lid tight, then stuffs it back into the cabinet exactly as it was.

He walks to the desk, sits down exhausted, and stares blankly at the string of numbers on the computer screen — his bank account.

After a long while, Wang Cong takes a deep breath, presses a familiar number, and a elderly woman's voice quickly comes from the other end of the phone.

"Hello, Mom, I'm fine, just a bit tired." Wang Cong tries to make his voice sound calm, but the irritability in his heart keeps spreading.

After brief pleasantries, the other end seems to sense something and asks proactively: "Son, did something happen?"

Wang Cong is silent for a moment, then asks: "Mom, how much money does our family have left now?"

An elderly woman's voice comes from the other end of the phone:

"Last year we spent a large chunk of our savings getting you connections for the prison job. Your dad is still lying in the hospital, unconscious all this time; the monthly medical costs are like a bottomless pit. There's not much money left at home."

The voice pauses, then continues: "What's wrong? Does the prison side need money?"

Wang Cong is silent for a while, then says: "The prison changed leadership, policies changed too. There's a good opportunity now — I might be able to climb higher, but it'll probably take a large sum of money."

The mother on the other end doesn't press further, just says hoarsely: "Good, an opportunity is good. Rest assured, Mom will go to the bank in a bit, withdraw all our money, and send it to you."

Wang Cong's throat is a bit dry; he asks in a hoarse voice: "Then my dad he….."

The other end is silent for a full half minute; only heavy breathing can be heard, then the voice returns calm, tone light and casual: "Pull the tube."

Wang Cong's mouth falls open; his heart feels like it has suffered a heavy blow.

The voice on the other end continues:

"Our family doesn't have that much money to keep your dad hanging on. This is our family's fate, and your dad's fate. It's fine, son. If your dad still has consciousness, and knows pulling his tube can exchange for your chance to climb, if he has consciousness he'd climb up and pull the tube himself."

Seemingly to put her son at ease, the other end adds:

"Besides, your dad is just an E-class citizen; the remaining hospitalization time he's accumulated over the years is almost used up. Better to pull it early, saves the nurses from urging us again."

Wang Cong's heart is blocked, throat dry, as if he has lost his voice — he cannot utter a single word.

The mother's voice sounds again, aged and hoarse:

"It's fine, son. Your dad won't blame you, Mom doesn't blame you either. It's Mom and Dad who have no ability; we muddled through a whole life and in the end we're just low-level citizens, can't help you with anything. But Mom and Dad will absolutely not hold you back."

"Son, you just climb without worry, don't consider anything. As long as you can change your own fate, Mom will be happy. Your dad would die with his eyes closed in peace."

Wang Cong's five fingers clutch the phone tight; both eyes blood-red, tears silently stream down, like bleeding.

The voice on the other end laughs calmly: "Alright, not saying more. Mom will go to the hospital in a bit to take one last look at your dad. You work hard in the prison. If the money isn't enough, tell Mom; Mom will smash the pots and sell the iron, sell the house if she has to, and scrape the money together for you."

Wang Cong grits his teeth, voice hoarse, suppressing his emotions: "Mom, rest assured. I will definitely make something of myself in the prison. I will definitely climb step by step to the very top. When that time comes, I'll apply for the qualification to buy the most expensive grave plot for my dad in the cemetery."

Hoarse laughter, relieved: "Good. My son has been the most filial since childhood. Mom believes in you. Mom will wait for that day. Then we'll bury Mom and your dad together — thinking about it makes me happy."

(End of Chapter)