Can Prisoners Have Pets?

Is this... a prison?

Hope woke up, feeling lost and bewildered by his surroundings.

Where is this?

There wasn't a breath of wind; the room was stiflingly hot, and a faint, musty odor drifted through the air. The bed beneath him was nothing more than a piece of cloth spread over wooden planks, and his pillow was a bundle of clothes that felt completely rotted to the touch.

Hope raised his hand to rub his eyes, but his right wrist felt heavy. He realized then that he was shackled by an iron chain, which was wrapped several times around his wrist, pressing almost flush against his skin. A massive iron padlock hung from it, and that was the source of the weight he felt.

The chain was as thick as a finger, and by the feel of it, it had already begun to rust.

He pulled the chain up and coiled it beside him; it was about four or five meters long. The other end was attached to the wall in front of him, secured by an iron spike driven deep into the wood. He tugged on it with force, but the spike didn't budge.

The wall was made of wood, cut very roughly, and Hope could feel the splinters on its surface.

He rubbed his eyes again, applying a bit of pressure, and a layer of grime rubbed off the back of his hand, as if he hadn't bathed in months.

He struggled to open his eyes.

Everything was a blur.

Except for the hand held right before his face, Hope couldn't see anything clearly; everything in the distance was just fuzzy patches of color. His hand didn't look right either—even through the thick layer of dirt and the dim light, he could see that his skin was an unnatural, deathly pale.

He touched his head; his hair was a tangled mess, coarse to the touch, hanging down over his shoulders. He pulled a lock in front of his eyes—it was white, like an old man's, yet when he touched his skin, there were no wrinkles.

He felt the clothes on his body: a cotton shirt... it should have been white, but it had yellowed. There were no holes. The brown trousers were a bit too long... they looked like dress pants.

This is not my body.

He thought.

This must be a dream.

I had just borrowed the Advanced Mathematics homework to copy; how did I fall asleep?

Hope pinched the webbing between his thumb and index finger hard. The nails on this hand hadn't been trimmed in ages—or perhaps they were never trimmed at all. The tips were jagged, as if bitten off by teeth, and had not yet grown into smooth edges. Now, they dug deep into the flesh of his hand.

"Ugh!" Hope groaned in pain, curling into a ball while clutching his hand: "Damn it!"

Damn it! This isn't a dream!

Hope bit his nail.

Where is this?

Who am I?

Did I transmigrate?

Damn it! My freshly made instant noodles! I even added an egg!

How did I get here?

Can you really die suddenly just from copying homework?

Those drawings that were supposed to bring misfortune!

Those twelve A2 architectural design sheets that I spent at least nine hours a day for three days to finish!

Wasn't it said that young people could handle a few all-nighters without any problems?

So, am I the protagonist?

What era is this?

Why a prison cell? Shouldn't it be the palace of some prince or noble?

Is this a tragedy? Please, no.

Where are the memories of the original owner?

Footsteps interrupted Hope's wild train of thought. In such a quiet environment, they were exceptionally distinct, moving from far to near before coming to a stop.

"Click."

The sound of a key turning in a lock.

Who is it?

A jailer?

What is he going to do?

The door opened, and a person about two meters tall walked in. Through the blur of colors, his skin appeared to be a dark, yellowish hue.

A black man?

A black guard and a white prisoner, that's interesting... no, that's not important...

It's a pity he isn't purely black; for a black man, he's a bit pale...

Hope blinked, and a set of numbers appeared in his mind without warning:

0.98, 1.65, 1.21, 3.01

Inexplicably, Hope felt certain that these numbers belonged to the person standing before him.

What is this?

Why did I suddenly think of these things?

No, that's not right. This isn't something I remembered; it feels more like something someone shoved into my head, forcibly crammed into my brain.

What do these numbers mean?

Are they some kind of attributes?

Is this my cheat code?

Why is it acting like a riddle-master?

"Let's go, Hope," the jailer said, stepping forward with keys in hand to unlock the shackles on Hope's wrists.

Up close, Hope could barely make out the jailer's face—an excessively ugly face with a beard like a goat's, though he didn't seem very old.

He didn't appear to be wearing a uniform; his coat, while neat, was somewhat tattered, looking like something a twentieth-century American farmer might wear.

He didn't look like a jailer; perhaps this was an illegal imprisonment.

Hope.

Hope repeated the pronunciation the jailer had just used.

Although it was also "Hope," it didn't feel like my name; the pronunciation was too strange.

It must be that the original owner was also named Hope, similar to my name, but it was an entirely different language with a different way of speaking.

Moreover, I could actually understand the sentence.

I shouldn't be able to, and it's impossible for me to speak this language; the only foreign language I know is English.

I haven't even passed the CET-4, and I even failed a course last semester.

Yet, I truly understood it.

Hmm, it must be that the body still retains some of the original owner's memories.

If that's the case, things aren't too bad; it would be miserable if I couldn't even speak the language.

"Where to?" Hope asked subconsciously.

The jailer's movements paused.

Hope's heart skipped a beat, and he immediately regretted it.

Could it be something the original owner should have known?

Fortunately, the jailer only hesitated for a moment before answering, "To show you your pets."

My pets?

The original owner kept pets?

Isn't he a prisoner?

"And," the jailer said, "this is your fourth time losing your memory... Heh, your name is Wilbur Whateley, and I am Wilbur Whateley, your brother."

Memory loss?

Uh... I suppose that counts as memory loss.

Brother?

Hope rubbed his chin; things seemed more interesting than he had imagined.

This looks like a family drama, and unfortunately, I seem to be the weaker party... the imprisoned brother... Wilbur is so ugly, I hope I don't look like that too?

The fourth time losing his memory... had the original owner lost his memory three times before, or had he tried to pretend to have amnesia to escape his imprisonment? It seems all those attempts failed.

But judging by Wilbur's tone, he doesn't seem to care whether his brother has amnesia or not.

That makes sense; after all, he has already locked his brother up, so he probably isn't in the mood to worry about his brother's health.

Wait...

Does my current state count as "amnesia"?

Is it possible that the previous times weren't amnesia, but just the body changing owners?

Just like now.

It's too strange, but what if?

What if I thought I got a second-hand account, but it was actually a fifth-hand one?

Why did the previous account holders stop playing?

Was the game not fun?

...Could it be that the account is defective?

...And generally speaking, in this kind of realistic game, selling a second-hand account should be harder than deleting it.

"Stand up," Wilbur said suddenly. "Don't space out, don't waste our time. Or do you need me to pull you up?"

"Sorry."

Hope realized he had been spacing out and hurried to catch up with Wilbur, who had already opened the door to leave.

He instinctively shoved his hand into his trouser pocket, only to be surprised to find it wasn't empty.

Judging by the texture against his fingertips, it was a folded piece of paper; the quality was poor, the edges rough, as if torn from a newspaper. Yet, the creases remained stiff, sharp enough to graze his skin as he traced them.

With paper this inferior, if left in a pocket for long, it would surely turn as soft as tissue paper soon.

It must have been placed there only recently.

Did the former Hope put it there?

"What is it now?" Wilbur asked.

"Nothing, I just wanted to ask, am I required to visit the pet often?"

"You are only allowed to see it once a month," Wilbur replied. "Hurry up and keep up."