Xiahou Dun

Wang Dao'an sat in cell number 17 for about twenty minutes. The noise in the corridor gradually subsided, signaling that the new batch of prisoners had been assigned and returned to their cells.

He heard the prison guards' footsteps approaching, pause at his door, and then hear the sound of Key being inserted into the lock.

The iron gate was opened.

The prison guard stood at the door, not coming in, but simply gesturing with his chin. "Come out, I'll take you to your cell. This is a temporary one; you won't be staying here."

Wang Dao'an stood up and followed the prison guard out of the cell, continuing down the corridor. They passed through a fire door and entered the accommodation area of Block C.

The corridor here is similar to the one before, but there's a white nameplate on the cell door with the cell number and the resident's name printed on it.

The prison guard stopped in front of cell number C-23, took out Key, opened the iron door, and turned to the side. "We're here. Your cellmate is already here. Go in."

Wang Dao'an nodded and stepped inside.

The iron gate slammed shut behind him.

The space inside the cell was slightly larger than the receiving room, about six square meters. There was Zhang Tie against each of the two walls, and a passageway less than a meter wide in the middle. A fluorescent light was overhead, emitting a low-frequency buzzing noise, and the light was pale and glaring.

The bed on the left was made neatly, with a gray blanket folded into a square, a pillow placed in the center, and the sheets pulled without a single wrinkle—it looked like the bed of a long-term resident, and someone with rather rigid lifestyle habits.

The bed on the right, however, presents a completely different picture.

The bed was piled with things—a few changes of clothes crumpled up and thrown at the head of the bed, a dirty towel draped over the bed frame, several worn-out pornographic magazines piled at the foot of the bed, and scattered among them were some snack wrappers, a plastic water cup, a deck of cards, and a pair of sneakers that reeked of sweat.

The entire bed was almost completely filled with these things, leaving no room to sit down.

Wang Dao'an's gaze shifted from that bed to the bed on the left.

There was a person lying on the bed.

He was a Latino man in his early thirties, about 1.8 meters tall, with a strong build, dark brown skin, and short, black curly hair that was close to his scalp.

He had an old scar on his face that ran from his brow bone to his cheekbone, and a layer of bluish stubble on his chin. His body was covered in tattoos—from his neck to his arms, from his chest to his abdomen, densely covered with various patterns and symbols, some religious images of the Virgin Mary, some geometric patterns, and some combinations of letters whose meanings were unclear.

He was wearing a white vest and gray shorts, his hands behind his head, legs crossed, scrutinizing Wang Dao'an as he walked in.

He didn't speak or move, as if he were watching an animal locked in a cage.

Wang Dao'an stood in the doorway for two seconds, then strode towards the bed piled high with belongings. He patted a pile of clothes on the bed frame, making a "thump, thump" sound, then turned to the Latino man and said in English, "Take your things away. This is my bed."

The Latinos did not move.

He didn't even lift his eyelids, as if he hadn't heard Wang Dao'an's words at all.

Wang Dao'an waited two seconds, then patted the pile of clothes again, this time with more force. "Hey, I said, take your things away."

The Latino man still didn't react. He turned over, his back to Wang Dao'an, as if intending to continue sleeping.

Wang Dao'an did not take any more pictures of the clothes.

He went straight to the bedside, bent down, picked up the pile of things on the bed—clothes, towels, magazines, snack bags, playing cards, sneakers—and threw them on the floor.

Things were scattered all over the ground, making a jumbled noise.

The Latino man froze instantly.

He suddenly rolled over, sat up in bed, his gaze falling on his personal belongings scattered on the floor, and then on Wang Dao'an's face.

His expression shifted from surprise to anger in a very short time, and his dark brown eyes flashed with a dangerous light, as if they had been ignited.

He jumped out of bed, stepped barefoot onto the cement floor, walked up to Wang Dao'an, and shoved him hard.

"Hey, you yellow-skinned wild Monkey, what do you want? Looking for trouble?" His voice was rough and loud, with a deliberately amplified arrogance, as if he was intentionally trying to attract the attention of others in the corridor.

Wang Dao'an was pushed back half a step, but quickly regained his balance. He didn't retaliate, but simply stared at the other man's face, his gaze calm, his tone flat and clear. "I need you to take your things away. This is my bed."

The Latino man paused for a moment, then laughed.

It was a contemptuous and malicious smile, his lips parted to reveal two rows of yellowed teeth. He pointed at Wang Dao'an, then at his own chest, as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world.

"Your bed?" he repeated, his tone exaggeratedly sarcastic. "No, no, no—this isn't your bed, it's my storage shelf."

He turned around and pointed to the stainless steel toilet in the corner of the cell. "That's your bed."

He tapped the toilet twice with his finger, then turned back to look at Wang Dao'an, his smile widening even further.

"Yellow-skinned Monkey like you only deserve to sleep there. Oh, right, I forgot to tell you—remember to clean that place thoroughly tomorrow morning. Otherwise..."

He stuck out his tongue, licked his lips, and made a disgusting and suggestive gesture. "Just use your tongue to lick that place clean for me."

Wang Dao'an did not speak immediately.

He stood there, looking at the Latino man's face, and remained silent for two seconds.

Then he smiled.

It was a low laugh emanating from deep within the throat, carrying an indescribable meaning.

His lips curved upwards, revealing a row of neat white teeth, but there was no smile in his eyes—his gaze was cold and sharp, like a knife just drawn from its sheath.

"Damn," he said in Chinese, with a strange sense of ease in his voice, "You're pretty awesome."

The Latino man couldn't understand what he was saying, but he could sense the contempt and disdain in his tone. His brow furrowed, his smile vanished, replaced by an offended anger. "What are you saying? Speak English, I don't understand Monkey."

As he spoke, he mimicked Monkey's movements, clenching his fists under his armpits and making "chirp chirp chirp" sounds, imitating the Monkey's voice. His expression was exaggerated and comical, as if he were putting on an impromptu performance, trying to humiliate the student from Great East in front of him.

Wang Dao'an maintained his smile.

He watched the other person's comical performance as if he were watching an animal performing tricks in a circus. His smile didn't disappear; instead, it became even more composed.

"It's alright," he said in English, his tone as casual as if he were chatting. "It's okay if you don't understand human language. You should be able to understand this."

The moment he finished speaking, his right fist had already slammed out.

That punch came without warning, without any build-up, without any unnecessary swinging—it was direct and decisive, like a spring compressed to its limit suddenly snapping open.

The fist struck the Latino man precisely in the abdomen, right below his ribs and above his abdominal muscles—the solar plexus.

The Latino man's body arched forward as if he had been hit by a truck. His eyes widened instantly, his pupils dilating from the intense pain, and his mouth opened, emitting a silent, forced gasp.

His stomach felt like it was being gripped by an invisible hand, churning and convulsing, a sour liquid rising to his throat, almost spitting out of his mouth.

He instinctively bent over, clutching his abdomen with both hands, trying to relieve the suffocating pain. But Wang Dao'an gave him no chance to catch his breath.

His left fist followed.

It was an uppercut, coming from below and striking the Latino man precisely in the chin. The moment the fist collided with his jawbone, it produced a dull, teeth-grinding sound. The Latino man's head snapped back, his neck snapping as if broken, and he was thrown backward by the force of the punch.

His head slammed against the concrete floor with a dull thud. His body bounced on the ground before collapsing, limbs outstretched like a beetle whose shell had been turned inside out. For a moment, he almost completely lost consciousness; everything went black, and his ears were ringing as if a thousand bees were fluttering in his head.

He lay on the cold ground, gasping for breath, trying to recover from the intense dizziness. His lips trembled, and a trickle of saliva mixed with blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

But Wang Dao'an did not stop.

He stepped forward, straddled the Latino, pinned his arms down with his knees, and then raised his fists and began to punch him repeatedly.

The first punch landed on his left eye. The skin around his eye socket instantly split open, and blood gushed out.

The second punch landed on the bridge of his nose. The nasal bone made a crisp cracking sound, and blood gushed out like a faucet being turned on, splattering onto Wang Dao'an's knuckles.

The third punch landed on his right cheekbone. The skin split open, revealing the white bone beneath.

The fourth punch, the fifth punch, the sixth punch— Wang Dao'an had no fixed target, nor a fixed rhythm. His fists rained down like raindrops, each punch carrying solid force, striking the Latino's face, head, and temples.

His movements were mechanical and precise, like he was carrying out a methodical job, each punch landing on the most vulnerable spot, each punch causing maximum damage.

The Latino man's screams, initially loud, gradually turned into muffled groans, and then into weak sobs.

His hands were pinned down by Wang Dao'an's knees, leaving him unable to resist. He could only futilely twist his body, trying to dodge the falling fists.

But his struggles were futile— Wang Dao'an's weight and strength completely overwhelmed him; he was like a fish nailed to a chopping board, only able to endure the blows again and again.

A commotion arose in the corridor.

Hearing the commotion, the prisoners in the next cell began banging on the walls and shouting excitedly, "They're fighting! They're fighting! C-23 is fighting!"

But no one stopped it.

That's the rule in prison—as long as no one dies, prison guards usually won't intervene in fights between prisoners.

Or rather, they simply don't care. In prison, the law of the jungle prevails; every day newcomers are disciplined, and every day troublemakers are dealt with. As long as things don't escalate, the guards are happy to watch the spectacle.

Wang Dao'an stopped punching.

He straightened up, took a few breaths, and looked down at the Latino man beneath him.

The face was completely unrecognizable—the left eye was swollen shut, barely able to open; the bridge of the nose was crooked to one side, and blood was still flowing; there was a deep gash on the right cheekbone, exposing the bone, and the lips were also torn, revealing bloody gums inside. The whole face was swollen and deformed, like a crushed tomato.

The Latino man's consciousness was blurred. His eyes were half-open, his gaze unfocused, and he mumbled something incoherently—as if threatening, or perhaps begging for mercy.

Wang Dao'an stood up, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him off the ground.

The Latino man's body hung limply, like a snake with its bones removed. His feet dragged on the ground, making a rustling sound. Wang Dao'an carried him step by step toward the bed piled with clutter—the bed that had originally belonged to him.

"Open your mouth," Wang Dao'an said in English.

Although the Latino's consciousness was blurred, he instinctively sensed danger. He tightly shut his mouth and clenched his teeth, as if using the last of his strength.

Wang Dao'an looked at his tightly closed mouth and sneered.

He raised his right foot, stepped on the Latino's shinbone, and stomped down hard.

"Ah--!!!"

A piercing scream erupted from the Latino's throat. His body tensed abruptly, convulsing violently like a fish being electrocuted. The excruciating pain in his shinbone nearly made him faint, and his mouth involuntarily opened, emitting broken howls.

Wang Dao'an loosened his collar, grabbed his hair, and pressed his head against the edge of the bed.

"Bite down."

The Latino man was no longer able to think. He could only follow Wang Dao'an's instructions, opening his mouth and biting the metal frame of the bed—which was covered with a thin layer of rubber padding, giving it a soft, elastic feel when bitten.

Wang Dao'an waited until he had a firm grip on the ball, then raised his right elbow and slammed it down hard.

The elbow struck the Latino man on the back of the head with a dull thud. The Latino man jolted violently, letting out a muffled groan, but his mouth remained firmly clenched around the bed frame—not because he didn't want to let go, but because Wang Dao'an's other hand was pressing down hard on the back of his head, preventing him from lifting his head.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Wang Dao'an's elbows landed one after another on the back of his head, each strike carrying solid force. The Latino's consciousness gradually faded, his teeth began to loosen, and a mixture of blood and broken teeth gushed from his mouth, dripping down the edge of the bed frame onto the floor.

Wang Dao'an finally stopped elbowing.

He released his hand from the back of the Latino's head and instead grabbed his hair, pulling him up sharply—the Latino's head was lifted off the bed frame. But instead of letting him regain his balance, Wang Dao'an, still holding his hair, turned his head toward the metal corner of the bed—that hard, sharp, protruding right-angled edge.

Then, he slammed the Latino man's face into his.

Pfft.

A dull, damp sound.

Blood splattered everywhere.

The Latino man's right eye socket slammed into the edge of the bed, tearing open the flesh and gushing blood like a fountain, splattering on the sheets, the walls, and Wang Dao'an's arm. His eyeball endured a tremendous impact in that instant; the bones in his eye socket made a faint cracking sound, and the eyeball was squeezed so hard it almost popped out of its socket.

The Latino man let out a scream that was not human, and his body convulsed violently, like a severed snake.

Wang Dao'an loosened his hair and let him collapse to the ground.

The Latino man was curled up on the ground, his hands covering his right eye, blood gushing from between his fingers and quickly pooling into a dark red puddle on the ground. His body was trembling incessantly, and he was making incoherent, broken sobs, as if he had lost the ability to speak properly.

Wang Dao'an squatted down, pried open the man's hands covering his eyes, and turned his head to face him.

That face was completely ruined.

His right eye socket was sunken, his eyeball was bloodshot, and his pupil was dilated, suggesting that he had lost his sight. A long gash was cut open at the corner of his eye, revealing the blurry flesh underneath. His entire face was swollen and deformed, his nose was crooked, his lips were cracked, and several teeth were missing, revealing dark cavities.

Wang Dao'an looked at this face with a calm expression, as if he were admiring a work of art he had created himself.

He reached out and scraped some blood- and flesh-stained material from the metal edge of the bed—shards of skin and flesh scraped from the Latino's eye socket during the impact. He pinched the material, pried open the Latino's blood-soaked mouth, and shoved the fragments inside.

The Latino man gagged, but Wang Dao'an pressed down on his chin, forcing him to swallow.

Then, Wang Dao'an released his grip, stood up, dusted the blood off his hands, looked down at the Latino man curled up on the ground, and calmly said in English, "From today onwards, I'll give you a nickname."

He paused, as if considering a suitable name.

"Let's call him Xiahou Dun."