Hong Kong film: Rise of Prison Break

In this world, if you follow the wrong leader, the consequences are worse than falling into a garbage dump in the back alley of Sham Shui Po.

At best, it could result in serious injuries and lifelong disabilities; at worst, the victim could be found dead in the street, stuffed into a sack, and thrown into Victoria Harbour, leaving no trace of their body.

As for those who are neither good enough for high-level jobs nor good enough for low-level jobs, their lives are worse than death—just like Zhang Wenjie right now, who started his career by going to prison!

And the kind where you're made a scapegoat!

In the exercise yard of Stanley Prison, the sky was low and overcast.

Zhang Wenjie squatted in the corner, his yellowish-brown prison vest crumpled and clinging to his thin frame, and his matching plastic shoes were torn.

He had a cigarette without a filter dangling from his mouth; the tobacco was so cheap and pungent that taking a puff felt like swallowing a handful of broken glass.

The nicotine stung his throat, but managed to numb his tense nerves.

He squinted, peering through the swirling blue smoke, his mind uncontrollably rewinding to a scene from half a month ago—the turning point in his fate, and the beginning of his nightmare.

In his previous life, Zhang Wenjie worked hard for half his life, and finally made it big when he was forty years old. He opened three chain restaurants in Shenzhen and owned a house and a car.

Before he could even enjoy life, a car accident brought him to this world.

Reborn?

This should have been a wonderful thing.

After all, how many emperors and generals sought immortality but could not attain it, yet he himself could live again, and even return to his early twenties from nearly fifty years old.

Only those who have experienced the weakness of aging truly understand how precious and wonderful youth and strength are.

But before he could finish his reflections, before he could plan how to make a name for himself in this life, fate dealt him a heavy blow.

That day, he had just walked out of a tea restaurant, his mind still processing this ambiguous 1990s Hong Kong street scene.

Suddenly, three or five burly men rushed out of the alley and dragged him into a white van without saying a word.

"Hey! What are you doing? Let me go!" He struggled in broken Cantonese, but his strength was like a chick flapping in front of several strong men.

"Enough nonsense, Tiger wants to see you."

He was blindfolded and led through a maze of twists and turns to a secluded tenement building.

When the blindfold was ripped off, he found himself standing in a dark, gloomy little room.

The room was small, with an old altar in the center, on which was placed a statue of Guan Yu.

Two thick red incense candles, each as thick as an arm, burned before the altar. The flames flickered in the dim light, casting eerie, swaying shadows. Wisps of smoke rose and swirled upwards, and the air was filled with the cheap scent of sandalwood and a faint musty smell.

In front of the altar, eight young men dressed in a slick and unsophisticated manner lined up in a row. Each of them wore floral shirts, tight pants, and their hair was slicked back and shiny.

Before Zhang Wenjie could react, he was shoved by the burly man behind him and forced to stand at the very end of the line.

A short, stocky middle-aged man stood directly in front of the altar. He was about forty years old, with a round face. When he smiled, his eyes narrowed into slits, but the smile never reached his eyes.

He solemnly kowtowed three times to the statue of Guan Yu, his movements slow and dignified, then raised the incense sticks above his head and respectfully placed them in the incense.

On the side of the altar, an old man with dark, thin skin and a red rope tied around his head holds an ancient-style monk's knife.

The blade gleamed with a cold light, and incomprehensible runes were engraved on its back.

The old man, barefoot, jumped and kicked on the ground, his body swaying and shaking as if in spasm, his hand brandishing a dagger, occasionally grabbing a handful of red powder and sprinkling it onto the burning candle.

"Pfft—" The pink powder touched the flame, causing a few sparks to burst out.

The old man muttered to himself, his voice hoarse like a broken gong: "The earth shakes the high hills, a landscape of streams and mountains eternally beautiful; the gate faces the sea, three rivers converge and flow for ten thousand years... Enter my Hongmen, loyalty and righteousness come first..."

The ritual, which resembled a shamanistic dance, lasted for about ten minutes. All eight thugs, including Zhang Wenjie, were forced to kneel down.

Zhang Wenjie was completely bewildered, but he knew that the situation was beyond his control, so he could only kneel down.

The dark-skinned, thin old man walked slowly towards them, the back of his dagger gleaming coldly in the candlelight.

He walked up behind the first thug, raised his hand, and slammed the back of his knife heavily onto the man's shoulder, making a dull thud.

"Do you love your brothers or the gold?" the old man demanded sternly.

"I love my brothers!" the thug replied through gritted teeth.

"I love my brother!" The second person who was slapped immediately responded.

When it was Zhang Wenjie's turn, the cold back of the blade slammed into his thin shoulder with fierce force.

Pain shot through half his body instantly. He gasped, spitting out three words through clenched teeth: "Love, brothers..."

He turned his head slightly and caught a glimpse of the old man's wrinkled, numb face out of the corner of his eye.

Zhang Wenjie cursed inwardly: "Love brothers my ass! Of course I love gold! Brothers? Brothers are for selling!"

After the ceremony, the short, stocky middle-aged man slowly turned around.

A smile returned to his face, a smile that looked friendly but sent a chill down one's spine.

"I, Smiling Tiger, have been with Tung Sing for so many years, and I've never mistreated my brothers." His voice boomed, echoing in the small room. "I guarantee that every one of my brothers will become incredibly wealthy. Now, a fortune is laid out before you—an opportunity to rise to the top."

Zhang Wenjie frowned even more deeply.

He understood the meaning behind this "wealth and honor": the gang had gotten into trouble and needed someone to take the blame, and the scapegoat would be chosen from among these eight people.

He wanted to resist, but when he looked down at his thin, frail body after his rebirth, and then at the seven or eight burly, unfriendly thugs at the door, the thought that had just arisen was suppressed.

The smiling tiger walked up to the crowd and continued in his seductive voice, "A few days ago, I had a fortune teller from Wong Tai Sin Temple tell my fortune. The master said I am destined for great wealth and honor, but I will face a calamity before the age of forty. As long as I get through it, the rest of my life will be filled with endless riches and glory."

His smile grew even brighter, and he even condescended to help one of his half-squatting underlings to their feet.

"You lot have the shortest tenure with me and the cleanest backgrounds." The smiling tiger's gaze swept across the eight faces. "Especially those with delicate features, who are most likely to evoke the pity of judges and juries. Even if you're chosen, you'll only be sentenced to a year or two, which will be over in the blink of an eye."

"Brothers who fill in for the gang, I, Smiling Tiger, will absolutely not treat them unfairly!" He patted his chest and guaranteed, "Whoever is chosen, I'll personally take them on as my apprentice! When they're out there, you'll get a share of the gang's business, I guarantee you'll live a life of luxury!"

These words were clearly very tempting to the seven thugs.

Most of these people are in their early twenties, an age when they are fearless and eager to make a name for themselves. They don't care at all about the distant possibility that "taking the blame might ruin their future."

Their eyes gleamed with greed, as if they could already see the glory they would enjoy after taking power.

A thin, dark-skinned old man walked over carrying an iron bowl, with a faded character for "righteousness" pasted on the rim of the bowl.

There were eight pieces of red paper folded into triangles in the bowl, corresponding to the eight people present.

"Life and death are predestined, wealth and honor are determined by fate." The smiling tiger gestured, "Please."

The seven people on the right eagerly reached out to grab the red paper, their movements as fast as if they were robbing money.

When it was Zhang Wenjie's turn, there was only one card left in the iron bowl.

He stared at the glaring red, a sense of foreboding rising in his heart.

Sometimes when you're down on your luck, even drinking cold water can cause problems.

Zhang Wenjie's hands trembled as he opened the red paper. Two large characters were written on it in crooked, illegible calligraphy:

Gao Yi.

"Everyone, raise your red papers!" Smiling Tiger was known throughout Tung Sing for his ability to read people's expressions, and he immediately saw that Zhang Wenjie at the end of the line had won the lottery.

He strode up to Zhang Wenjie and placed his right hand heavily on the shoulder of the young man who was a head taller than him—the very spot where he had just been struck by the monk's knife.

"Good brother! What's your name?" The smiling tiger's smile was kind and friendly, but he secretly tightened his grip.

Zhang Wenjie stared at the extremely ironic words "noble righteousness" on the red paper, feeling a chill in his heart.

He raised his head, his voice so calm it surprised even himself: "Zhang Wenjie."

"Haha! Good! Good brother!" Smiling Tiger slapped his shoulder hard, his eyes narrowing into slits with laughter. "Don't worry, the boss will definitely not treat you unfairly! From today onwards, you are my disciple, Smiling Tiger!"

Three days later, Zhang Wenjie was arrested for "armed robbery causing serious injury".

The evidence was conclusive—the victim's lost wallet and a bloodstained dagger were found in his "residence," and three "eyewitnesses" identified the suspects correctly.

In court, the judge looked at the handsome, slender young man and a hint of pity flashed in his eyes.

Following instructions, the defense lawyer spoke at length about Zhang Wenjie's "early death, impoverished family background, and momentary lapse in judgment," pleading with the court for leniency.

Ultimately, Zhang Wenjie was sentenced to 48 months in prison.

Standing in the dock, he looked up at the audience.

The smiling tiger, dressed in a well-tailored suit, gave him an encouraging smile and secretly made a "don't worry" gesture.

Zhang Wenjie turned his head back expressionlessly.

Now, squatting in the exercise area of ​​Stanley Prison, Zhang Wenjie exhales a smoke ring, letting the pungent smell of cheap cigarettes swirl in his lungs.

Nicotine may temporarily numb the nerves, but it cannot numb a clear mind.

He stubbed out his cigarette and ground it with the sole of his plastic shoe.

In the distance, several burly prisoners were looking over with ill intent, whispering among themselves.

Zhang Wenjie slowly stood up and patted the dust off his backside.

Forty-eight months.

He still has time.

In this life, he will no longer believe in brotherhood, nor will he entrust his fate to others.

He wanted the gold, and he wanted his life.

He will not let any of those who made him take the blame get away with it.

The sound of a prison guard's whistle rang out in the distance, signaling the end of exercise time.

Zhang Wenjie walked with the crowd toward the prison cell, his back ramrod straight.