Hong Kong film: Rise of Prison Break

Others' confinement was bleak and dull, spent day and night with mold and rust, even their breath smelled damp and rotten.

Zhang Wenjie has been eating well for the past two weeks, and he's been indulging in plenty of tobacco and alcohol.

In the cramped cell, the granite walls were damp with a chilly mist. In his corner, there were empty lunchboxes and bottles of liquor. The air was filled with the greasiness of roast goose and the acrid smell of cigarettes, which was the most paradoxical sight on the second basement level.

As for what the prison guards thought, it was none of Chung Chu-hsiung's concern.

The corridors of Stanley Prison are forever echoed with the hollow sound of footsteps and the loud banging of iron gates, but here, the rules are crooked—because the pen that determines the promotion of prison guards is in the hands of the security chief, Chung Cho-hung.

"Brother Xiong!"

The dozing guard was jolted awake by the sound of the door opening. Seeing that it was the murderer Xiong who had entered, he quickly stood up straight, forcing a shy yet ingratiating smile onto his face.

The dim light bulb swayed overhead, casting his tall shadow on the mottled cement wall, swaying back and forth.

Chung Chu-hung wore his usual enigmatic smile as he entered the room. With a seemingly casual flick of his arm, a pack of unopened Marlboro cigarettes slipped into the pocket of the prison guard.

The movements were so fluid, like magic tricks, that even surveillance cameras struggled to capture them.

"I admire you," Zhong Chuxiong said, his voice not loud, but carrying a certain weight of certainty. "What's your name?"

"Brother Xiong, my name is Ma Zhixiong, I'm new here from last month!"

Ma Zhixiong is tall and strong, standing like an iron tower, which inspires awe. He is indeed good material to be a prison guard.

But his slightly forward-leaning posture at this moment betrayed his eagerness to climb up the social ladder.

"Hey, not bad, not bad." Chung Chu-hsiung patted him on the shoulder, the pressure neither too light nor too heavy. "It's a waste of talent to keep him as a guard in the basement. Report to my office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

Ma Zhixiong's face instantly erupted with uncontrollable ecstasy, his mouth stretching almost to his ears.

In Stanley, if you want to climb up the ladder, the chief of security's nod is more effective than anything else.

As for what kind of dealings or unspeakable transactions Zhang Wenjie and Zhong Chuxiong had, that was not something he should ask, nor was it something he dared to think about right now.

"Thank you, Brother Xiong! I will definitely do my best!" Ma Zhixiong's voice trembled with excitement.

Chung Chu-hsiung nodded, said nothing more, and turned to leave.

The sound of leather shoes stepping on the cement floor gradually faded into the distance, rhythmic and steady.

Ma Zhixiong watched that figure disappear around the corner of the corridor, the smile on his face lingering for a long time.

He rubbed his hands together and looked at the transparent plastic box on the table, which contained Zhang Wenjie's dinner.

Now he finds the box much more pleasing to the eye.

He picked it up and walked without hesitation to the deepest cell.

The key was inserted into the lock and turned, causing the iron gate to creak loudly.

"Brother Jie! Dinner's ready!"

Ma Zhixiong didn't even have much of a guard up and walked straight in.

The lights in the cell were even dimmer. Zhang Wenjie sat against the corner of the wall, one leg bent, his arm resting on his knee.

His posture didn't resemble that of a prisoner, but rather that of someone resting in their own backyard.

Ma Zhixiong became even more certain that this person was definitely not simple, and that staying in Stanley was probably like a vacation for him.

Following Chung Cho-hung is the right path, but this guy in front of me might be an even bigger patron.

"Your name is Ma Zhixiong?" Zhang Wenjie looked up at him.

He heard the conversation outside very clearly.

But when he saw the person's face clearly, three words involuntarily popped into Zhang Wenjie's mind—Brother Crow.

His face was angular, with prominent brow bones and a wild, untamed look in his eyes, yet he was wearing a smile, creating an eerie contrast.

"Brother Jie, are you smoking?" Ma Zhixiong immediately pulled out the pack of Marlboro cigarettes that Zhong Chuxiong had given him, deftly broke open the foil, and pulled out a cigarette.

Instead of handing it over directly, he skillfully turned the cigarette upside down so that the filter was facing the other person, and then neatly presented the cigarette to Zhang Wenjie.

This is the custom among underlings when offering cigarettes to their bosses; they avoid touching the cigarette holder with their fingers as a sign of respect.

Zhang Wenjie took it, lit it with the lighter Ma Zhixiong had just provided, and took a deep drag.

Smoke filled the cramped cell.

"Easy," Zhang Wenjie exhaled a smoke ring, squinting at him. "He's a talent."

Details determine success or failure; this simple act of offering a cigarette reveals thoughtfulness. No wonder later...

Zhang Wenjie stopped his thoughts and asked, "Tell me, what's been happening in Stanley these past two weeks? Tell me everything, big or small, that you know about."

Ma Zhixiong pulled over the only small stool next to him and sat down, lowering his voice: "Brother Jie, it's quite lively in the cell. Someone's running a betting operation."

"What are we betting on?"

"I bet...I bet you can take on a few after you get out."

Ma Zhixiong looked a little embarrassed and scratched his head. "At first, it was a one-on-one bet, with odds of 2 to 1 for you to win. Then, I don't know where the rumor came from, that you weren't arrested but turned yourself in... The odds immediately changed, and now it's 10 to 1 for you to lose the one-on-one bet."

He paused, then quickly added, "Of course, I think those guys are all idiots! How could you possibly lose, Brother Jie!"

Zhang Wenjie listened without much expression, simply flicking his cigarette ash: "That's it? Nothing else?"

"There are also bets on gang fights," Ma Zhixiong's voice was even lower, "betting on a group of people ganging up on you... the odds are even lower than a one-on-one match."

He noticed Zhang Wenjie's lips twitch slightly and quickly said, "But there are bets on you winning! A one-on-one bet on you winning is 5 to 1! Group bets are calculated per person, five per group..."

"Alright." Zhang Wenjie interrupted him, then suddenly laughed. His laughter was a mix of amusement and coldness. "Why didn't you say so earlier that this was a sure-win bet? Today, Brother Jie will help you make a fortune. Go bet on me to win, bet as much as you can."

He leaned closer, staring at Ma Zhixiong: "By the way, what's the stake? It's not cigarettes, is it?"

"In Stanley, the gambling is openly all about cigarettes," Ma Zhixiong nodded, "but cigarettes can be exchanged for money. There are people in the prison who do this business, and I've heard they have a good reputation and are honest with everyone..."

Without Ma Zhixiong, a newcomer, needing to elaborate further, Zhang Wenjie instantly understood.

Prisons are microcosms of society; where there is demand, there is supply. Cigarettes are a form of hard currency, so naturally there is a black market exchange chain.

That's not the point. The point is—can this chain hold up?

As long as we can maintain stability...

Zhang Wenjie suddenly let out a sinister laugh.

He beckoned Ma Zhixiong closer with his finger, then put his arm around his shoulder, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.

At first, Ma Zhixiong listened attentively, but gradually his expression changed—from shock to disbelief, and finally, fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

"Brother Jie... isn't this... going a bit too far?" Ma Zhixiong's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice dry.

No wonder he was shocked. If Zhang Wenjie's plan could actually be carried out, it would be almost equivalent to taking over the entire black market for cigarettes in Stanley Prison and stirring up all the related interest chains.

Zhang Wenjie didn't say anything, but patted him on the shoulder and then slowly got up.

He walked to the rough granite wall on the inside of the cell, stood still, bent over, and clenched his fist.

Before Ma Zhixiong could react, Zhang Wenjie twisted his waist and his fist shot out like a cannonball!