Hong Kong film: Rise of Prison Break

The half-smoked cigarette in Brother Biao's mouth fell to the ground, scattering a few sparks that were particularly glaring in the dimly lit corridor.

"Damn it! So arrogant!"

The cigarette rolled twice and stopped beside the rusty iron fence.

Inside Warehouse Number Two, a dozen pairs of eyes peered through the gaps in the fence, watching Zhang Wenjie stride confidently, a half-smile playing on his fair face.

As he passed Warehouse No. 2, he deliberately slowed his pace, raised his right hand, his thumb swept across the tip of his nose, and then he put his four fingers together and pointed downwards, making a highly insulting gesture in the direction of the idiot.

The movements were fluid and graceful, as if they had been practiced hundreds of times.

"The gangs are no good anymore. Even pretty boys like this can become Red Pole (a high-ranking member in the Communist Party). Does that mean I, Golden Tooth Yao, can become a Double Flower Red Pole?"

Jin Yayao tapped his gold tooth with a clang, pulled out a crumpled cigarette case, took out one, and handed it to Sha Biao.

Outside the iron fence, Zhang Wenjie had already reached the door of Warehouse No. 1.

The prison guards escorting the prisoners took out their keychains, the clanging of metal echoing through the empty corridor.

Several explosion-proof lights hung from the ceiling of the corridor, their shades covered in dust, casting a dim, yellowish light like the afterglow of the setting sun.

The walls were painted with green paint up to half a person's height, the lower half of which was covered with stains and unidentified marks. The air was filled with a mixture of disinfectant, sweat, and rust.

"Which big brother are you with?" Sha Biao lit a new cigarette and took a deep drag.

"People outside say he's a smiling tiger."

"Smiling tiger? Pshaw..." Sha Biao spat, smoke billowing from his nostrils. "Utter piece of trash, only that shameless old bastard Camel likes to play these kinds of tricks."

He is of the same generation as the current head of the Tung Sing triad, Camel, and has been imprisoned in Stanley Prison for over a decade, so he doesn't need to give anyone face.

More importantly, he controlled the people in the two warehouses, and the money they gave him each month was enough for him to live comfortably inside.

"This kind of trash is either a smuggler or a rookie." Stupid Mark squinted, staring at Zhang Wenjie's back through the smoke. "You'd better win, or I'll shove his head into the toilet."

Every fight in prison is a gamble.

In today's match, the bookmakers have set the odds for how long Zhang Wenjie can last. The highest odds are "he won't last more than three minutes," since Warehouse No. 1 is Big Mi's territory, with over twenty people inside, none of whom are pushovers.

"Clang—"

The iron gate to Warehouse Number One was pulled open, and the rusty hinges emitted a piercing scream.

Two burly prison guards pushed Zhang Wenjie by the back and shoved him into the cell.

The iron gate slammed shut behind them, its echo reverberating through the empty warehouse.

"Go to the bed near the toilet!"

The prison guard's voice came through the iron gate, muffled and impatient.

They also enjoy gambling, and naturally, they couldn't miss out on such a sure-fire bet.

As for whether this new pretty boy lives or dies—who cares?

Zhang Wenjie stood at the door, not moving immediately.

He first scanned the area.

Warehouse No. 1 is about 30 meters long and 10 meters wide, with bunk beds on both sides, arranged in four dense rows.

A two-meter-wide main road was left in the middle, at the end of which were the wash area and toilets, and the air was filled with the smells of urine and mold.

At that moment, the eyes of the twenty-odd prisoners, some sitting and some standing, were all fixed on him.

Among those gazes were curiosity, disdain, hostility, and a few particularly peculiar ones—sticky, like a tongue licking the skin.

Zhang Wenjie shrugged and began to walk slowly forward.

The leather shoes made a clear "tap, tap" sound as they stepped on the terrazzo floor.

On the beds on both sides, some people were sitting cross-legged picking their toes, some were lying on their backs humming songs, and some were playing cards together—but everyone's attention was on the newcomer.

Just like at a livestock market, buyers carefully examine the livestock they are about to acquire, weighing how much meat they can get.

"Ahem... Hello, hello..."

As I walked to the lower bunk near the toilet, an old man with gray hair stood up, clutching his chest.

He looked to be in his sixties, with a slightly hunched back and a face full of wrinkles, but his eyes were still quite clear.

"My name is Robinson." The old man coughed twice as he spoke. "This...this bed is mine, but if you like, I can sleep on the top bunk."

Zhang Wenjie sized him up for two seconds.

The old man's prison uniform was faded but clean, and his nails were neatly trimmed, which was a rare sight in this filthy environment.

"My name is Zhang Wenjie. You can call me Brother Jie if you like." Zhang Wenjie reached out and stopped the old man from tidying up his bedding. "At your age, don't climb up and down. You sleep on the lower bunk, and I'll sleep on the upper bunk."

Robinson paused for a moment, a hint of surprise flashing in his cloudy eyes, then nodded and didn't insist any further.

"Clang!"

Just then, next to the innermost bed in the warehouse, a burly man with a face full of scars and a Guan Gong tattoo on his chest stood up and spat a mouthful of phlegm onto the ground.

The thick, yellow phlegm landed precisely at Zhang Wenjie's feet, just two inches away from splashing onto his shoes.

"Hey! Isn't this the rumored new Red Pole of Tung Sing who can kill someone with a single punch?" The burly man drawled, his tone sarcastic. "How can you be so rude? When you enter a temple to worship a god, you should greet the people inside... This is Big Brother Mi's territory. Shouldn't you pay your respects to him first?"

The speaker was Daliqi, Da Mi's right-hand man and the second-in-command of Warehouse No. 1.

As he spoke, he glanced at the bed at the far end of the storeroom. Da Mi was leaning against the bedding, playing with a deck of cards in his hand, without even lifting his eyelids.

The whole place fell silent.

All that remained was the sound of water dripping from the toilet: drip, drip.

Zhang Wenjie looked down at the phlegm at his feet, then looked up at Daliqi.

He slowly pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out and put it in his mouth, then flicked on the lighter.

The flames leaped up, illuminating half of his face.

He only spoke when he exhaled the smoke.

"Oh, sorry." Zhang Wenjie smiled, revealing a set of white teeth. "I'm new here and don't know the rules."

He took out another cigarette and handed it to Robinson beside him.

The old man hesitated for a moment, then took it, and Zhang Wenjie lit it for him.

Then he turned around, faced Daliqi, and blew out another smoke ring.

The smoke rings slowly spread through the air, drifting toward Daliqi's face.

"But it doesn't matter." Zhang Wenjie's voice was soft, but in the quiet warehouse, every word was clearly audible. "The rules here will change soon."

He paused, then the smile widened.

"because--"

Before he finished speaking, Zhang Wenjie's left leg sprang up like a venomous snake emerging from its hole!

Without any buildup or warning, it was so fast that only a blur remained.

The tip of the leather shoe pierced Daliqi's lower abdomen with razor-sharp precision—the most vulnerable spot for a man.

"Because my rules are the only rules."

"puff!"

A dull thud.

Daliqi's arrogant expression froze instantly, turning into an incredulous blankness.

He opened his mouth but made no sound, instead looking down at his crotch as if confirming something.

Then the pain surged in like a tsunami.