Beast in a Cage

Lin Feng's first day in Block X was more peaceful than he had imagined.

He slept until he naturally woke up and ate a breakfast specially delivered from the prison kitchen—fried eggs, bacon, roasted tomatoes, mushrooms, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a cup of freshly brewed Colombia coffee. The tableware was ceramic, not the kind of plastic trays used in ordinary prisons. The coffee cup even had an inconspicuous logo printed on it, from a niche Italy handmade brand.

He took a shower, used the Hermès shower gel, and changed into a clean prison uniform—although it was a prison uniform, the material of the Block X uniform was obviously much better than that of the Block C uniform; it was cotton, soft and breathable, and the color was not that glaring bright orange, but a soft gray-blue.

He sat on the sofa, opened an encrypted communication software on his Mac Studio, and checked the message from K. The message was written in code and on the surface looked like an ordinary shopping list, but Lin Feng understood its meaning—the background investigation of Robert Hines was underway and had made some progress, but it would take time to dig deeper. After a rebound, NLG's stock price began to fluctuate slightly again, indicating that someone was secretly accumulating shares.

Everything is proceeding according to plan.

He closed his laptop, leaned back on the sofa, and closed his eyes to rest.

Around 3 p. m., the buzzer on the door went off once, followed by a knock on the door.

Lin Feng opened his eyes. "Please come in."

The door was pushed open, and a young man in his early thirties, wearing a prison guard uniform, walked in. He was lean and had neatly trimmed short light brown hair. His uniform was ironed flat, and the equipment hanging at his waist was arranged in an orderly manner. He looked clean and efficient, a stark contrast to the other slovenly prison guards.

He stood at the doorway, not coming in, and gave a slight bow, saying politely, "Mr. Lin, I'm sorry to disturb your rest. I'm the duty supervisor for Block X, you can just call me Davis."

Lin Feng nodded. "What's up?"

Davis gave a slightly mysterious smile and lowered his voice, "It's like this, Mr. Lin. Tonight, we have a... regular entertainment activity here. If you're interested, you can take a look."

Lin Feng raised an eyebrow. "What kind of activity?"

Davis didn't answer directly. Instead, he went into the room and closed the door behind him. He walked up to Lin Feng and sat down on a small stool opposite the coffee table—this action itself conveyed a message: what he was about to say was not suitable for outsiders to hear.

"Mr. Lin, you may not be very familiar with the United States prison system," Davis began, his tone unhurried, as if introducing a membership service to a new customer. "Here, every prisoner has value. The prison itself is a business."

Lin Feng leaned back on the sofa, gesturing for him to continue.

Seeing his interest, Davis launched into a long explanation. "Although our prison is public, not private, the same principle still applies—no one will keep a worthless person on the payroll. You may have seen news reports about prisoners sentenced to hundreds or even thousands of years in prison, which sounds terrifying, right? But in reality, these prisoners are usually 'released' from the prison—or, to put it more bluntly, kicked out—once they are old, frail, and unable to work."

"Prisons don't keep idle people," Davis repeated firmly. "If you can't create value, you don't deserve to be here. However, the definition of 'value' is much broader than the average person outside might imagine."

He paused, then continued, "Besides being a basic source of labor, these prisoners are also a resource. For example—organ transplants. Of course, this isn't something that can be discussed openly, but through certain channels, a healthy, well-matched organ can fetch a very high price. This is why many prisons prefer to accept middle-class white prisoners rather than Black prisoners. Because the Black population has a higher rate of drug abuse, many of their organs are of less than ideal quality, significantly reducing their value."

He said this in such a calm tone that it was as if he were discussing pork prices at a farmers' market.

Lin Feng's expression remained unchanged; he simply listened quietly.

Davis continued, "In addition, some wealthy individuals have specific preferences. Some are not interested in ordinary people, but have a particular... interest in prisoners. Of course, these services are all voluntary and mutual, and we will coordinate them and charge a certain intermediary fee."

He spread his hands, giving a "you know" look, then changed the subject. "However, that's not the point tonight."

His eyes brightened slightly. "Tonight's event is an underground boxing match."

Lin Feng's gaze shifted slightly. "Underground boxing?"

"Yes," Davis nodded. "It's held once or twice a month, a regular event in our area. The participants are selected from various prison wards—usually hardened offenders who volunteer, but some are 'persuaded' to participate. The competition uses no-holds-barred fighting rules; there's no protective gear, no gloves, and no restrictions other than the prohibition of weapons."

"How is the outcome determined?" Lin Feng asked.

"One side is incapacitated or killed," Davis answered succinctly and without embellishment. "Usually, the latter is more common."

He added, "The revenue for this event comes from two main sources. The first is ticket sales—each game allows a certain number of external spectators to attend. These spectators come from very special backgrounds; they are either wealthy or influential, including local tycoons, politicians from out of town, and even occasionally Hollywood celebrities. They're not there for the spirit of sports, but for the raw brutality and excitement."

"The second part, and the biggest one, is the peripheral betting. Every match is streamed live on the dark web, allowing participants from all over the world to place bets. The stakes are usually very high; the commission alone is enough to cover the operating expenses of the entire Block X."

After listening, Lin Feng remained silent for a few seconds, then asked, "Is there a match tonight?"

"Yes," Davis said. "The first show is scheduled to start at eight o'clock tonight, and there will be three shows in total. If you're interested, I can arrange a private box for you."

Lin Feng thought about it. Since he had nothing else to do that night, he figured he might as well go and take a look. He wanted to see for himself what this shadowy world operating within the United States prison system was really like.

"Okay, I'll go take a look."

Davis smiled with satisfaction and stood up. "Okay, Mr. Lin. I'll come and take you there around 7:30."

7:40 PM.

Davis appeared at Lin Feng's room door on time, having changed into a more formal uniform and even wearing white gloves. He led Lin Feng out of Block X, through a passage different from the one during the day, past two security doors requiring iris recognition, and then onto a freight elevator that descended about two floors.

The moment the elevator doors opened, a cacophony of noise surged in like a tidal wave.

It was a soundscape that blended the clamor of the crowd, the low-frequency vibrations of music, and a certain primal excitement. The air was thick with the faint smells of blood and sweat, along with the scents of alcohol and cheap perfume, all intertwined to create an atmosphere that sent adrenaline soaring.

Lin Feng stepped out of the elevator, and a bright and clear view suddenly appeared before him.

This is a converted underground space, roughly the size of a standard basketball court. Several rows of high-powered lights hang from the ceiling, illuminating the center of the court as if it were daytime, while the surrounding stands are deliberately kept in a dim, ambiguous light.

In the center of the venue was a huge octagonal iron cage.

The iron cage was about three meters high, welded together from steel bars about the thickness of a thumb, its surface gleaming with a cold metallic sheen. The bottom of the cage was made of steel plates, covered with dark marks of varying shades—the bloodstains from countless fights, some dried and oxidized to a dark brown, others still looking fresh. The cage door, a latched gate, was currently open, as if awaiting the arrival of tonight's protagonists.

The iron cage is surrounded by a circular seating area that rises in tiers.

The auditorium could hold about three or four hundred people, and it was already about seven or eight tenths full. The lights deliberately avoided the auditorium area, so that those sitting in the dark could only see blurry outlines and could not see each other's faces. But even so, Lin Feng could still feel a common temperament from those outlines - it was the aura of people who were used to controlling resources and being superior.

These people, as Davis said, were either rich or powerful.

They sat in comfortable chairs, holding champagne or whiskey glasses, chatting quietly in small groups, their faces filled with anticipation. Occasionally, someone would let out a laugh, the sound echoing in the empty underground space, mingling with the music and the shadows of the iron cages, creating an eerie atmosphere.

Davis led Lin Feng around the main area of the stands, up a flight of stairs, to the door of a VIP box on the second floor. He opened the door and stepped aside to let Lin Feng go in first.

The private box was approximately ten square meters in size, decorated in a style consistent with the Block X cells—comfortable, refined, and understatedly luxurious. Against the wall was a set of dark brown leather sofas, and in front of them was a marble-topped coffee table with a bottle of decanted red wine, several plates of delicate pastries, and a plate of cut fruit. A silent air conditioner stood in the corner, blowing out a soft, pleasant breeze. The front of the box featured a full-length one-way glass wall, offering an unobstructed view of the iron cages and audience seating below, while those outside could not see inside the box.

Davis retrieved an iPad from under the coffee table, turned on the screen, and handed it to Lin Feng: "Mr. Lin, this is tonight's odds table and betting system. Player information and real-time odds for all three matches are listed here. You can place your bets at any time. Your bets will be deducted from your account, and if you win, the winnings will be automatically deposited into your Switzerland bank account—we support various offshore account settlements."

Lin Feng took the iPad, leaned back on the sofa, and casually glanced at the information on the screen. The information of the two contestants in the first match had been listed—one nicknamed "Bone Crusher," 1.93 meters tall, 110 kilograms in weight, with a record of seven wins and zero losses, including five kills; the other nicknamed "Razor," 1.87 meters tall, 98 kilograms in weight, with a record of four wins and two losses, including three kills.

The odds are similar, with the Bone Crusher having a slight advantage.

Lin Feng didn't rush to place a bet. He put his iPad aside, picked up a glass of red wine from the coffee table, swirled it gently, and then took a sip. The wine was good; it was a Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon with smooth tannins and a rich fruity aroma.

At exactly eight o'clock, the lights in the center of the venue suddenly went out.

A spotlight shone on the iron cage, bathing the entire octagon in a blinding white light. The commotion in the audience gradually subsided, replaced by a tense atmosphere of holding one's breath.

A presenter in a black suit entered the cage, holding a wireless Mike. His voice, amplified by surround sound, filled the space with the rousing energy characteristic of a professional boxing commentator.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's feast--"

A chorus of whistles and applause erupted from the audience.

"As is customary, I'll announce the rule first—there are no rules!"

A burst of laughter and cheers erupted from the audience.

"No gloves, no protective gear, no referee. Two people go in, and only one of them can come out—or, no one can come out!"

The cheers grew even louder.

The host raised his right hand and shouted, "Now, let's welcome our first pair of warriors tonight—first up, Calvin, the ' Bone Crusher ' from Block C!"

The passageway door on one side of the iron cage opened, and a huge figure stepped out.

He was a true giant. Nearly 1.95 meters tall, his body bulging with muscles, like a statue sculpted from granite. His body was covered in tattoos—from his neck to his ankles, almost no clean skin. His bald head gleamed under the spotlight, and his deep-set eyes shone with a cold, numb light. He wore black shorts, and his bare torso was coated with olive oil, making the lines of his muscles even more defined under the light.

He stepped into the cage, raised his arms, and showed off his biceps to the audience. A burst of screams and applause erupted from the stands.

The host continued, "His opponent— 'Razor ' Dupree, also from Block C!"

The door on the other side of the passage opened, and a relatively thin figure walked out.

The term "lean" is used in contrast to "Bone Crusher." In reality, Razor's physique is also quite lean, with clearly defined and sharp muscles, like a meticulously honed knife. His skin is much darker than Bone Crusher's, a deep brown that is almost black, and he has an old scar that runs diagonally from his forehead to his chin, giving him an expression that always looks ferocious.

He entered the cage, and instead of greeting the audience like the Bone Crusher, he stood quietly in his corner, his eyes fixed on his opponent.

The cage door was closed. The latch clicked shut with a crisp metallic clang.

The host stepped back outside the cage, raised his right hand, and then suddenly swung it downwards.

"Start!"

The Bone Crusher and the Razor started moving almost simultaneously.

Without any probing or detours, the two men charged straight at each other like two wild beasts released from their cages, colliding violently in the very center of the cage.

The sound of flesh colliding exploded in the confined space, dull yet powerful, like two drums being struck simultaneously. Taking advantage of its weight, the Bone Crusher knocked Razor back two steps, followed by a sweeping right hook that whistled through the air.

Razor ducked, his hook punch slamming into the steel bars of the cage with a piercing metallic clang, causing the entire cage to tremble slightly. Bone Crusher shook his hand, seemingly oblivious to the pain, and followed up with a left hook.

Razor dodged again, simultaneously delivering a low kick that slammed into the side of Bone Crusher's left knee. The dull thud was clearly audible even in the stands. Bone Crusher's knee bent, but his massive body only swayed; he didn't fall. He roared, grabbed Razor's kicking leg, and pulled it violently into his arms, while simultaneously slamming his right elbow into Razor's temple.

At the last second, Razor tilted his head, and the elbow slammed into his shoulder with a sickening crack. Razor groaned, and his left arm went limp—his shoulder blade was clearly broken.

But he did not back down.

Using the force of being pulled by the Bone Crusher, he lunged forward and slammed his head into the Bone Crusher's nose. With another muffled thud, the Bone Crusher's nose broke, and blood gushed out, splattering onto Razor's face and chest.

The Bone Crusher winced in pain, released his grip on Razor's leg, and staggered back a step. He wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, and seeing his hand covered in crimson, the numbness in his eyes was replaced by a violent rage.

He roared and lunged at Razor like a runaway truck.

Razor's left arm was useless, so he could only use his right arm to block. He blocked the first punch, and barely managed to block the second. The third punch broke through his defense and slammed heavily into his cheek, causing his body to tilt to one side. The Bone Crusher didn't give him a chance to catch his breath, followed by a knee strike to Razor's abdomen— Razor's body arched like a shrimp struck in a vital spot, and he spat out a mixture of acid and blood.

The Bone Crusher grabbed his hair, forced his head down, and then delivered a vicious right knee strike to his face.

one time.

Two times.

Three times.

Razor's face was no longer human-shaped.

Blood gushed from the wounds on his nose, mouth, and eyebrows, covering his entire face. His eyes were half-open, and his consciousness was clearly beginning to fade. His hands hung limply at his sides; he didn't even have the strength to lift them to protect himself.

But the Bone Crusher didn't stop.

He released Razor's hair, letting it collapse to the ground, then raised his bare right foot and stomped on Razor's head and neck, one step at a time. The sound was dull and rhythmic, like someone hammering a wet wooden board with a meat mallet.

With the first kick, Razor's body twitched.

The second time, the convulsions became less severe.

The third kick, the fourth kick, the fifth kick— the Razor's body stopped moving.

Blood slowly spread from below his head, forming a growing dark red pool on the steel plate.

The Bone Crusher, panting heavily, looked down at the motionless body at his feet, delivered two more kicks, and only stopped when he was sure his opponent had completely lost all signs of life. He raised his head, lifted his blood-stained arms, and let out a beast-like roar towards the audience.

The audience erupted in cheers.

Screams, whistles, applause, and cheers mingled together, like the climax of a carnival. Some raised their glasses in salute towards the cage; others excitedly pumped their fists as if they themselves had won the game; still others wrote something in their notebooks with blank expressions, probably calculating their bets.

Lin Feng sat in the private room, watching everything quietly through the one-way glass.

His expression remained unchanged from beginning to end.

There was no excitement, no reluctance, no disgust, no fear.

It's like watching a performance that has nothing to do with you.

He picked up his wine glass, took another sip, then put the glass down and stood up.

"Let's go," he said to Davis was standing at the door of the private room.

Davis nodded and opened the door to the private room. Lin Feng followed him out of the room and walked down the corridor toward the exit.

Behind them, in the direction of the iron cage, staff were wrapping the motionless body in a black plastic bag. People in the stands had already begun discussing the odds and players for the second match.

Just as Lin Feng reached the corner of the corridor, he heard the sound of a door opening behind him, followed by a voice carrying a clear sense of sarcasm:

"Oh, who do I think it is—isn't this Mr. Lin?"

Lin Feng stopped in his tracks.

He turned around and looked in the direction of the sound.

Under the corridor lights, the door to a private room was open, and a middle-aged white man stood in the doorway. He was about forty-five or forty-six years old, of medium build, wearing a well-tailored dark blue suit, holding a glass of champagne, and sporting a playful, cat -Rat expression. His dark brown hair was slicked back, revealing a broad forehead. At first glance, his features were fairly regular, but the look in his eyes carried an unsettling arrogance and malice.

Lin Feng looked at him, remained silent for two seconds, and then asked, "Who are you?"

The middle-aged man's smile froze for a moment—he clearly hadn't expected Lin Feng not to recognize him. But he quickly masked his embarrassment, and the mockery on his face intensified.

He took two steps forward, standing about two meters in front of Lin Feng, raised his Lin Feng glass as if offering a toast, and then said, "My name is Steven Harris, Vice President of Morgan Stanley Private Bank. You may not have heard of me, but you've certainly heard of the people behind me."

He took a sip of champagne, then put down his glass and continued in a condescending tone, "Lin Feng, don't think we can't do anything to you just because you're hiding in prison. You think this is a safe haven? How adorably naive."

A malicious smile curled at the corner of his mouth, "I can tell you with certainty—your businesses outside are being devoured by us bit by bit. We're accumulating NLG's stock; we're negotiating with your real estate projects; we're contacting your partners one by one. Before long, you'll be a complete pauper."

He paused, glanced around at his surroundings, and then let out a disdainful chuckle, "As for this place—tsk tsk, this is a place that eats people. I'd like to see how you, having lost everything, will survive here."

He took another step forward, lowered his voice, and said in an almost Whisper tone, "I think those big black guys will 'treasure' you. After all, a delicate-skinned Great East like you is very popular here."

After saying this, he straightened up, tilted his head back and drank the rest of the champagne in his glass in one gulp. Then he gave Lin Feng a bright, malicious smile, turned around and walked back to his private room.

The door to the private room slammed shut behind him.

Lin Feng stood there, staring at the closed door, and remained silent for a few seconds.

His expression remained calm, showing no signs of being provoked.

He just stared at the door, as if trying to memorize something.

Then he turned to Davis and said, "Let's go."

Davis nodded, asked no further questions, and continued to lead the way.

The two walked along the corridor toward the exit, their footsteps echoing in the empty underground passage before fading into the distance.