Cafeteria Trouble
The effect of establishing authority was even better than Wang Dao'an had anticipated.
From the bloody "welcome ceremony" in the morning until lunchtime, no one bothered him.
As he walked down the corridor, the prisoners who had been whispering amongst themselves fell silent and looked away from him, as if afraid that making eye contact with him would drag them into some trouble.
Several prisoners who were walking towards him even stepped aside to make way for him, lowered their heads, and hurried past him.
This reaction is normal. Information travels extremely fast in prisons, especially within the same ward. What happened in cell number 11 in the morning had spread throughout Block C in less than an hour.
The fate of that Latino cellmate—his leg was broken, several teeth were knocked out, and his right eye was literally blinded—has become the talk of the town among all the prisoners.
Nobody wants to be the next one.
As for the prison guards, Wang Dao'an originally thought someone would come to investigate the matter—after all, he had seriously injured his cellmate, and according to normal prison procedures, he should at least be taken to solitary confinement for a few days or receive a formal reprimand. But strangely, no prison guards came to see him all morning. It was as if the bloody fight had never happened.
Wang Dao'an knew this was unusual, but he didn't think much of it. His task wasn't to analyze the logic of the prison administration, but to wait for those who truly wanted "Lin Feng" dead to show up.
What he didn't know was that the reason the prison guards didn't deal with him wasn't because of Lin Feng or the warden's orders, but because of a more subtle reason—the person who anonymously bribed the warden to transfer "Lin Feng" out of the Block X specifically instructed him: Don't give that Great East the opportunity to be held in solitary confinement; keep him in the regular ward.
The other party was clearly worried that if "Lin Feng" was held in solitary confinement, they would not find a suitable opportunity to strike.
This explanation conveniently gave Wang Dao'an room to remain in Block C.
Lunchtime.
The canteen in Block C is located on the first floor of the prison area. It is a large hall of about 200 square meters, with more than a dozen long metal dining tables, each with two rows of iron stools fixed to the ground.
Several rows of fluorescent light tubes hung from the ceiling, their white light glaring and illuminating the entire cafeteria down to the smallest detail.
The air was filled with a smell that was a mixture of cheap ingredients, disinfectant, and sweat; it wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it certainly wasn't pleasant either.
A long line formed in front of the canteen's food window as prisoners carried plastic trays and took turns receiving their lunch: a piece of overcooked, tough beef, a spoonful of mushy mashed potatoes, a few limp, overcooked carrots, and a slice of dry white bread. The portion wasn't small, but the taste was truly appalling.
Wang Dao'an, carrying a tray, glanced around the layout of the cafeteria before choosing a corner seat against the wall.
This spot has its back against a wall, offering a wide view and allowing you to observe the entire cafeteria without drawing too much attention.
He picked up a plastic fork, forked a piece of beef into his mouth, and chewed it.
The meat was tough and dry, seasoned only with salt and pepper, but barely edible. He then took a bite of the mashed potatoes, which tasted like watered-down flour paste, bland and tasteless.
He continued eating without changing his expression, as if the food was no different from the delicacies in restaurants outside.
The other prisoners in the canteen were all observing him, whether intentionally or unintentionally.
Those gazes came from all directions, some curious, some wary, and some carrying a complex, indescribable meaning.
But no one came up to talk to him, and no one dared to sit down near him.
The two or three tables around him were empty, as if an invisible barrier separated him from the crowd.
Wang Dao'an didn't care at all. He kept his head down, eating his meal bite by bite, his movements steady and composed, as if the gazes and discussions around him had nothing to do with him.
In another corner of the cafeteria, at a table against the wall, sat several people who looked rather different.
The leader was a white man covered in tattoos, in his early forties, with a lean build and short, dark brown hair that revealed several old scars on his scalp.
His tattoos differed from the chaotic street style of other prisoners; the lines were more refined and the patterns more intricate—extending from his neck to his wrist, like a meticulously designed work of art.
His face was thin, with high cheekbones, and his gray eyes were deep and calm, like two frozen glass beads.
Instead of queuing for food like the other prisoners, he sat at a table with a cup of cold black coffee in front of him. His gaze seemed casual, but he was actually keeping an eye on the Asia face at the other end of the dining hall.
His name is Viktor Kovacs, and he is the leader of the "Bad Boys" gang in this prison.
Beside him sat three equally tattooed henchmen, all seasoned veterans of the streets, their eyes gleaming with the ruthlessness typical of outlaws.
Viktor looked away, lowered his head, and reached under the table. His fingers groped around on the bottom of the table and found something taped to it—a piece of paper folded into a square.
He took out the paper, unfolded it under the table, and glanced at it.
It was a sketch.
The painting depicts the face of an Asia man—short hair, a thin face, slightly high brow bones, a straight nose, and lips pressed into a straight line.
The sketch is very professional, with clean and crisp lines and proper handling of light and shadow, making it look like it was done by a professionally trained artist.
However, the details of the portrait are somewhat blurry. Although the outline of the facial features is roughly accurate, it lacks specific characteristics—no expression, no demeanor, and no sense of a living person that makes it instantly recognizable. It is more like a simulated portrait drawn based on a written description than a realistic portrait.
Viktor slightly adjusted the angle of the sketch so that his subordinate sitting next to him could see it. He gestured with his chin towards the corner of the cafeteria and asked in a low voice, "Is it him?"
The subordinate followed his gaze, staring at Wang Dao'an's face for several seconds before shaking his head uncertainly. "Maybe... I'm not sure."
He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Boss, you know, all we have is this sketch, not a photograph. And to be honest, these Asia all look pretty much the same, I really can't tell them apart."
Viktor did not reprimand him. He knew his subordinate was telling the truth.
To Westerners, Asia faces are indeed difficult to distinguish—just as Asia have difficulty distinguishing Europe faces.
This is a common cognitive bias, unrelated to racial discrimination, and purely a result of the brain's lack of fine-grained ability to distinguish unfamiliar face types.
Moreover, after arriving in the United States, this "Lin Feng" lived a secluded life and left almost no visual records. All they could find was this sketch based on someone else's description, and sometimes the difference between the sketch and the real person is greater than the difference between two different people.
Viktor folded the sketch back up and tucked it under the table. He was silent for a moment, then his gaze returned to the figure in the corner of the cafeteria.
The Asia was eating with his head down, his movements steady and his expression calm, showing none of the nervousness or unease one would expect from a newcomer to prison. He had no obvious injuries, and his gait was firm and powerful; he didn't seem like the kind of person who could be easily bullied.
Viktor frowned.
He felt that something was off.
According to the intelligence they received, "Lin Feng" is a businessman—a wealthy, shrewd, but essentially still businessman character.
Businessman is not usually good at fighting, let alone seriously injuring a burly Latino cellmate on his first day in jail. His clean and efficient violent methods are more like those of a professional thug or a soldier.
But the person in front of him didn't look like an ordinary businessman at all.
"Boss, should we just make our move?" the subordinate sitting next to him asked in a low voice, his tone tinged with urgency. "The target is right there, and we outnumber him. Let's just go up and take him out, and be done with it."
Viktor didn't answer immediately. He picked up his now-cold coffee, took a sip, and then slowly shook his head. "Wait a little longer."
He put down his coffee cup, his gaze still fixed on the Asia: "I feel like something's not right. The previous intelligence said this guy was the company owner, a businessman. But look at the way he eats, the way he walks, and that fight this morning—it doesn't seem like the fighting skills of an ordinary businessman."
He paused, then lowered his voice even further. "I suspect that the person we're targeting might be far more troublesome than we imagine."
The men looked at each other, but no one responded.
Just as Viktor was hesitating, a commotion suddenly broke out at the entrance of the canteen.
Several figures walked in through the door, their steps arrogant and their manner disdainful of others.
The leader was a Latino man, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, tall and strong, with a head of long black hair braided into countless dense dreadlocks that hung down his shoulders and back. As he walked, the braids swayed, like a group of black snakes wriggling behind his head.
He wore a silver cross necklace, his arms were covered in dark tattoos, he had a toothpick dangling from his lips, and a roguish, arrogant smile on his face.
He was followed by four equally burly Latino men, who appeared to be his henchmen.
As soon as the five men entered the canteen, the surrounding prisoners made way for them, heads bowed, avoiding eye contact. Clearly, this man with dreadlocks wielded considerable influence in Block C.
Wang Dao'an didn't look up and continued eating. But out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the movement of the five people—they were walking straight in his direction.
The man with dreadlocks walked up to Wang Dao'an's table, stopped, put his hands in his pockets, looked down at Wang Dao'an who was eating, and a mocking smile appeared on his face.
He turned to his henchmen and said in an exaggerated, theatrical tone, "Hey, did you see that? This Asia kid really likes eating this pig swill. Look how much he enjoys it, tsk tsk tsk--"
As he spoke, he mimicked chewing motions, making exaggerated smacking sounds. Several of his followers burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the cafeteria and attracting even more attention.
Wang Dao'an didn't look up and continued eating.
Seeing that he didn't react, the dreadlocked man's smile became even more arrogant. He bent down, reached out, and grabbed the sandwich from Wang Dao'an's plate—a piece of white bread with cheap ham and cheese, part of the cafeteria's meal.
He opened the sandwich, spat a glob of phlegm into it, then closed it and put it back on Wang Dao'an's plate.
"Come on," his voice carried a malicious pleasure, "Let's add some more spice. That'll make it more flavorful."
Wang Dao'an stopped eating.
He slowly put down the plastic fork in his hand, raised his head, and looked at the dreadlocked man standing in front of him.
His gaze was calm, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, as if he were looking at an insignificant passerby.
The dreadlocked man felt a little uncomfortable under his calm gaze, but quickly regained his arrogant demeanor. He reached out and patted Wang Dao'an's head—the gesture was like patting a dog. "Yellow-skinned Monkey, eat! Don't you like to eat? Why aren't you eating anymore? Hmm?"
He patted Wang Dao'an's head again, this time with a bit more force.
Wang Dao'an did not dodge.
He sat there, letting the man with dreadlocks pat his head, his expression unchanged.
Then, he moved.
His movements were so fast that no one had time to react. His right hand shot out like lightning, grabbing the wrist of the hand the dreadlocked man had used to slap him on the head, then yanked downwards and flipped outwards—
"Snap!"
A crisp cracking sound echoed through the cafeteria.
The dreadlocked man's wrist was twisted and broken. His arm was bent at an abnormal angle, his forearm and the back of his hand almost touching. The broken bone pierced through the skin, revealing white bone fragments. Blood gushed from the wound and dripped down his arm to the ground.
The man with dreadlocks let out a piercing scream, his voice sharp and hoarse, echoing throughout the entire cafeteria. His body instinctively arched downwards, trying to relieve the excruciating pain in his wrist, but Wang Dao'an did not give him the chance.
Wang Dao'an released his wrist, clenched his right fist, and delivered a clean and precise uppercut, striking the dreadlocked man's jaw precisely.
Another muffled thud.
The dreadlocked man's jaw groaned under the strain, his head snapped back, and he fell straight backward like a felled log, his head slamming into the concrete with a dull thud. His body twitched twice, then went limp and remained motionless.
From the moment Wang Dao'an made his move to the moment the man with dreadlocks fell to the ground, less than three seconds elapsed.
A brief silence fell over the cafeteria.
Then, the four henchmen behind the dreadlocked man realized what was happening.
"Damn it! He hit the boss!"
Kill him!
The four men rushed forward almost simultaneously, shouting all sorts of foul language and waving their fists, trying to teach Wang Dao'an a lesson.
Wang Dao'an stood up from the stool and went to greet him.
He didn't retreat, didn't dodge, but charged straight into the middle of the four men. His movements were concise and efficient, every punch and kick aimed straight for vital points—the first punch landed on the first man's nose, causing him to groan and stagger backward, clutching his nose; the second kick struck the second man's knee, causing him to scream and kneel on one knee; the third punch landed on the third man's temple, causing him to roll his eyes and fall to the ground; the fourth man, seeing the situation was dire, tried to retreat, but Wang Dao'an had already closed in, grabbing his collar and pulling him back, then headbutting him on the forehead, causing him to groan and slump to the ground.
In less than ten seconds, all four people collapsed to the ground.