Stand-In

The warden visited late that night.

The corridors of Block X had fallen silent; most of the cell lights were off, with only the wall lamps every few steps casting a dim, yellowish glow.

Lin Feng was still awake, sitting on the sofa reading a book on game theory—it was an original English version that he had asked Davis to find for him, written by a professor at Princeton University.

Two soft knocks came from outside the door.

Lin Feng closed the book. "Please come in."

The door was pushed open, and instead of Davis, a tall, middle-aged man in a dark gray uniform walked in. He was about fifty years old, with graying hair that was cut very short, revealing a patch of bluish-gray scalp.

His face was square, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a pair of deep brown eyes that appeared particularly calm under the light.

He didn't wear a name tag on his uniform, but a silver badge was pinned to the left side of his collar—the warden's insignia.

James Horton, warden of Washington State Penitentiary.

He entered the room, closed the door behind him, then stood by the door, bowed slightly, and said respectfully, "Master."

Lin Feng placed the book on the coffee table, looked up at him, and asked, "Coming over so late, is there something you need?"

Warden Horton walked to the coffee table in front of Lin Feng, but didn't sit down. Instead, he stood there and reported in a low voice, "This afternoon, someone contacted me through an intermediary. They offered a deal—five hundred thousand dollars—in exchange for transferring you from Block X to a regular ward."

Lin Feng's gaze sharpened slightly.

Five hundred thousand dollars. This figure isn't too high, but it's definitely not low either. For a mid-level official in the prison system, this is equivalent to several years' salary. The other party wasn't stingy, but it wasn't extravagant either—which suggests that the other party isn't the kind of top-tier tycoon who's used to spending money like water, but rather someone in the middle class who has certain resources, but isn't so wealthy as to treat millions of dollars as pocket money.

"Which prison ward will you be transferred to?" Lin Feng asked.

"Block C," Horton replied. "They've specified cell number 17 in Block C and requested the transfer be completed within three days."

Lin Feng tapped his fingers lightly twice on the armrest of the sofa, quickly analyzing the meaning of the message in his mind.

Block C was the ordinary prison section he passed through on his first day. The conditions there were worlds apart from Block X —narrow cells, hard beds, public toilets, and only one hour of exercise time per day. Most importantly, the inmates there were a mixed bag, and violent incidents were frequent.

The other party transferred him to Block C; their purpose was self-evident.

In Block X, he was virtually untouchable. Solitary confinement, tight security, 24-hour surveillance—anyone who wanted to touch him would have to pay an extremely high price. But it was different in Block C —there were many people, many eyes, chaos, and disorder, making it much cheaper to create an "accident."

Some people couldn't hold back any longer.

Lin Feng pondered for a moment, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips. He didn't immediately answer Horton's question, but instead asked, "What did you say?"

"I haven't replied yet," Horton said. "I said I need to think about it and will give them an answer by tomorrow at the latest."

Lin Feng nodded in approval. Horton's approach was prudent—neither outright refusal arousing suspicion nor an immediate agreement that would seem too hasty, but rather leaving a reasonable buffer period.

He leaned back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke, "Agree to them."

Horton paused slightly, "Master, you mean...?"

"Agree to their conditions," Lin Feng repeated calmly. "Transfer me out of Block X and to cell number 17 in Block C. The timeframe is as they demand; get it done within three days."

Horton frowned. "But Master, the security level in Block C is completely different from that in Block X. If the other side has indeed deployed some means there, your safety..."

"Who said I was going in person?" Lin Feng interrupted him.

Horton was stunned.

Lin Feng stood up from the sofa, walked to the French windows, looked at the Old Oak swaying in the night breeze in the courtyard, and slowly said, "If they want to attack me in Block C, then let them think I went to Block C. Go and arrange for someone—someone with a similar build and appearance to me—to take my identity and move into cell number 17."

Horton immediately understood Lin Feng's intention, but his brow remained furrowed. "Using a Stand is indeed feasible, but risks still exist. If the enemy has deployed more than one group of people in Block C, the Stand's life could be in danger."

"I know." Lin Feng turned around, looking calmly at Horton. "So it's not just a double. Arrange for four more people to enter Block C in the same batch as newly admitted prisoners. Their mission is to protect the double's safety while observing—who, when, and how—is trying to harm me."

Horton was silent for a few seconds, then nodded solemnly. "I understand. I'll get on it right away."

He turned to leave, but stopped at the door, turned back, and asked, "Master, what are your requirements for the stand-in?"

Lin Feng thought for a moment and said, "Loyalty is the most important thing. Secondly, he needs to have a certain level of adaptability. He doesn't need to be a great fighter, but at least he shouldn't panic and give himself away when caught off guard."

Horton nodded. "I have a suitable candidate under me. His name is Wang Dao'an. He's East Asian, and his height and build are very similar to yours, with about 60-70% resemblance in facial features. He used to serve in the special forces, but retired for some reason and joined our organization three years ago. His loyalty is not an issue, and his mental fortitude is excellent."

"He's the one," Lin Feng said.

Horton said nothing more, gave a slight bow, then turned and walked out of the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Silence returned to the room.

Lin Feng stood by the window, gazing at the night outside, and remained silent for a long time.

The fact that they acted so quickly, earlier than he had anticipated, indicated that their fear of him was deeper than he had previously estimated. A prisoner who had already "lost his assets" shouldn't have been worth such a great deal of trouble—yet they still wanted to eliminate him.

There are only two possibilities.

The first possibility is that they don't believe he has really lost his assets, and think he has a backup plan, so they want to eliminate him completely.

The second possibility is that they know he has a backup plan, and that's exactly what they're afraid of.

Either way, it proves that his previous judgment was correct—the chessboard of this game is much larger than he initially thought.

He looked away, walked back to the sofa, sat down again, picked up the book on game theory, and turned to the page with the folded corner.

But his gaze did not fall on the pages of the book; instead, it went beyond the pages and looked at a point in the void.

"Let me see," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible, "Just how many tricks do you have up your sleeve?"

Two days later.

At six o'clock in the morning, a gray prison transport bus drove into the gates of Washington State Penitentiary.

The bus passed through two security checkpoints and finally stopped at the drop-off area at the entrance of Block C. The doors opened, and a prison guard jumped off first, followed by a second guard, and then five new prisoners wearing orange prison uniforms.

The Wang Dao'an third.

His hands were bound in front of him with plastic cable ties, and his feet were shackled with heavy chains, making his steps somewhat clumsy. He kept his head down and followed the prisoner in front of him, step by step down the bus steps and onto the concrete ground of the prison.

As dawn broke, a few leaden-gray clouds drifted across the sky, and the air carried a damp smell, a mixture of earth and metal.

Wang Dao'an raised his head and quickly glanced at his surroundings.

His gaze was calm yet alert, like a wild beast that had just entered unfamiliar territory, silently taking in the surrounding terrain, entrances and exits, and sentry posts.

He was about 1.78 meters tall and weighed around 75 kilograms. He had broad shoulders and a straight back. His facial features did indeed resemble Lin Feng's —the same face shape, the same distance between his eyebrows and eyes, and the same jawline—but upon closer inspection, differences could be seen. His nose was slightly lower than Lin Feng's, his lips were slightly thicker, and he had a very faint scar at the corner of his eye, almost invisible without careful observation.

However, these differences are not easily noticed in a prison environment. Especially in Block C, the prisoners' impressions of newcomers usually only remain at a vague outline - "Great East", "medium build", "looks intimidating" - few people stare at a newcomer's face for a closer look.

Moreover, Wang Dao'an's file had been personally modified by Horton. In the prison's management system, his photo, name, and number had all been replaced with Lin Feng's information. Any prison guard who searched for "Lin Feng's" information on their terminal would only see Wang Dao'an's photo.

This is part of the privileges of Block X —in this prison, the warden holds supreme power. He can alter records, switch identities, make one person disappear or another appear out of thin air.

If he's willing.

Five new prisoners were brought into the reception room in Block C. A prison guard sat behind a desk, checking their identities against a list one by one, and then distributed uniforms and personal items to them.

Wang Dao'an received an orange prison uniform, a pair of plastic slippers, a towel, a toothbrush, and a roll of toilet paper. Carrying these items, he walked along the corridor towards the depths of Block C, guided by the prison guards.

He passed by cell after cell. Behind the iron doors, pairs of eyes watched him through the observation windows, their gazes filled with various emotions—curiosity, indifference, hostility, and assessment. Those gazes were like tiny knives, scraping across him, trying to read his character from his gait, expression, and demeanor.

Wang Dao'an ignored those stares.

He kept his eyes straight ahead, his steps steady, following behind the prison guard until they reached the door of cell number 17 at the end of the corridor.

The prison guard took out his Key, opened the iron gate, and stepped aside to gesture for him to go in.

Wang Dao'an entered the cell and looked around.

This is a standard single cell, about four square meters. Zhang Tie is fixed to the wall, with a thin mattress on it and a gray blanket folded over it. In the corner is a stainless steel toilet and sink, with a small mirror hanging above the sink. A fluorescent light is overhead, emitting a low-frequency buzzing noise, and the light is pale and glaring.

The walls are gray cement walls, with some traces left by the previous occupants—a few scratches, a light stain, and a line of small words written in ballpoint pen in the corner, the writing so blurred that it is almost illegible.

Wang Dao'an placed the things he was holding on the bed, then turned around to face the iron door.

He heard sounds coming from the corridor—footsteps, conversations, the clanging of iron gates opening and closing. It was the sound of the prison awakening, like a giant machine slowly starting up, gears and chains turning, pistons reciprocating.

Next door to him, in cells 16 and 18, lived four other new prisoners who had entered prison on the same day as him.

They were Lin Feng's mercenaries.

Four experienced former special forces members, disguised as ordinary criminals, were assigned to the cell next to cell number 17. Their mission was to secretly protect Wang Dao'an while monitoring everything happening in Block C —who would approach cell number 17, who would deliberately get close to him during exercise time, and who would ask the guards about him.

Wang Dao'an sat down on the edge of the bed.

He placed his hands on his knees, closed his eyes slightly, and regulated his breathing. His heartbeat was steady and strong, about sixty-five beats per minute—the standard heart rate of a well-trained soldier when entering combat mode.

He didn't know when the enemy would appear, nor how they would attack.

But he knew they would come.

And he was ready.