Hong Kong film: Rise of Prison Break

Zhang Wenjie didn't move his foot; instead, he began to slowly grind it from side to side.

Like stepping out a cigarette butt.

"Did you like it? Big Brother Mi..." Zhang Wenjie bent down, smiling broadly, his voice as warm as if greeting an old friend, "Are you satisfied with this welcome ceremony?"

"Ah—stop! Stop!"

Big Meow roars.

Do you like it?

Apply pressure with your feet.

"ah--!!"

Do you like it?

Apply more force.

"Do you like it or not?!"

With each question asked, he would grind the stone forcefully once.

Da Mi's right hand was a bloody mess, with her finger bones twisted at strange angles.

The numbers on the system interface jumped to 53, 55, 58…

Finally, it broke through 60 points.

enough.

Zhang Wenjie stopped.

Da Mi could no longer make a sound; she could only lie in a pool of blood, convulsing, her face covered in snot and tears.

Zhang Wenjie squatted down and patted his face.

"Remember, from today onwards, I'm in charge of Warehouse Number One."

He stood up and looked around the entire warehouse.

The ground was a mess, with more than twenty thugs lying haphazardly on the ground, some groaning and some already unconscious.

The remaining prisoners who hadn't yet committed any crimes huddled on their beds, too afraid to even breathe.

Robinson stood by his bed, still holding the half-smoked cigarette in his hand, his eyes filled with complex emotions.

Zhang Wenjie walked to the center of the warehouse, put his hands on his hips, and his voice echoed in every corner.

"Who else?"

No one answered.

The only sound was the dripping of water from the toilet faucet.

Tick.

Tick.

It's like a countdown, announcing the end of one era and the beginning of another.

"From today onwards, I'm in charge of this warehouse!"

Zhang Wenjie stepped on Da Mi's head, the plastic soles of his shoes slowly grinding against Da Mi's smooth scalp.

The bloodstains on the soles of his feet spread across his scalp, like some kind of humiliating totem.

In the corner, the indifferent prisoners huddled on their beds. Some pretended to tidy their beds, while others turned their heads to look at the wall, but their peripheral vision kept drifting toward the center of the room.

There was no sympathy in those gazes, only mockery—mocking Da Mi's arrogance just now, and mocking her current disheveled state.

That's how it is in prison: when you're successful, everyone flatters you; when you fall, everyone wants to kick you while you're down.

Those subtle, mocking glances felt like needles pricking Da Mi's back.

"Ugh—!"

With its head being stepped on, Big Meow let out a beast-like growl, bracing itself on the ground with its hands, veins bulging, and managed to lift its head an inch!

"Thump!"

Resistance resulted in even harsher repression.

Zhang Wenjie exerted force with his feet, pressing Da Mi's head back to the ground, twisting the sole of his shoe from side to side as if crushing an insect.

Da Mi's face was crushed and deformed, her lips were pressed against the cement floor, and her teeth were bleeding.

But his eyes remained open.

His bloodshot eyes rolled upwards, staring intently at the condescending face through the gap in Zhang Wenjie's trouser leg.

The hatred in his eyes was so intense it was impossible to ignore, like a poisoned knife.

"Go ahead! You're not convinced, are you?"

Zhang Wenjie laughed, lifted his foot and released his head, but just as Da Mi was about to breathe a sigh of relief, his toe kicked towards the side of Da Mi's knee like a scorpion's tail!

"Snap!"

Another crisp sound.

"ah--!!!"

Big Mimi's screams changed tone, from angry roars to desperate howls.

He clutched his twisted and deformed right leg, his body curled up and convulsing, his prison uniform soaked with sweat and blood.

Zhang Wenjie looked around.

Only suppressed breathing and groans remained in the warehouse.

Those eyes that had been brimming with anticipation now all lowered their gazes. No one dared to meet his eyes.

"Who agrees?"

The voice wasn't loud, but every word struck a chord in people's hearts.

"Who objects?"

silence.

A deathly silence fell, broken only by the persistent dripping of the toilet faucet: drip, drip.

"No objections..." Zhang Wenjie nodded, as if confirming something that was taken for granted, "Then from now on, I'll be in charge."

He raised his hand and looked at the blood stained on it—some of it belonged to others, and some of it might have been his own.

The blood was half-dried, sticky, and had formed a dark red scab between the fingers.

Just as I was about to grab a random rag to wipe myself, a grayish-white towel was handed to me.

Zhang Wenjie turned his head to the side.

It's Robinson Crusoe.

The old man had a slightly hunched back, a humble smile on his face, and held a towel in his hands, keeping a very low profile.

The towels looked old, but they were very clean and neatly folded.

"Brother Jie...towel..."

At her age, she still greets people with such a smile.

Zhang Wenjie's heart stirred for some reason, not with emotion, but with a complex sense of astonishment.

He took the towel, said nothing, and just wiped his hands haphazardly a couple of times.

The bloodstains spread across the gray-white cloth like withered flowers.

Before they could even savor the afterglow of this victory—

"Bang!!!"

The warehouse door was violently kicked open!

The iron gate slammed against the wall with a deafening crash, and the entire warehouse seemed to shake.

"Everyone, squat down! Squat down! Do you hear me?!"

Chung Chu-hsiung, holding a chestnut wood baton as thick as an arm, strode into the cell.

He wore a crisp correctional uniform with gleaming epaulets, and his eyes beneath the brim of his hat were sharp as an eagle's.

The first thing I saw when I entered the room was the mess on the floor, and my brows immediately furrowed.

He was followed by Ma Zhixiong and three other prison guards.

Ma Zhixiong gasped as soon as he entered—he knew there would be a fight, but he didn't expect it to be this brutal.

More than a dozen people were lying haphazardly on the ground. Some were groaning while clutching their arms, while others were convulsing while clutching their legs. Da Mi was in the worst condition, with her right leg bent backward and her face swollen like a pig's head. She was barely breathing.

To die or not?

The thought flashed through Ma Zhixiong's mind, but he immediately dismissed it.

He subconsciously touched his pocket—stuffed inside was a betting slip, crumpled but scalding hot.

Bet on Zhang Wenjie to win, odds are 7 to 1.

Dominate the entire field.

Ma Zhixiong's tense face instantly relaxed, and the corners of his mouth even couldn't help but turn up slightly before he quickly suppressed it.

The dealer is an old ghost from prison; his reputation is as solid as gold, and no one has ever dared to default on his debts.

Not to mention, the bookmaker himself probably bet a lot on Zhang Wenjie winnings—who would turn down money?

Just then, he felt a gaze upon him.

Looking up, I met Zhang Wenjie's eyes.

Those eyes were calm, without the ferocity of someone who had just finished a fight, nor the smugness of a victor; they simply looked at him indifferently.

Ma Zhixiong felt a chill run down his spine, quickly lowered his head, adjusted his police cap, and strode over to Zhong Chuxiong's side.

He pulled a uniquely shaped gun from his leather holster—a tranquilizer gun with a long, thin barrel and a magazine filled with red tranquilizer darts.

"It's you again, you bastard!"

Chung Chu-hsiung snatched the tranquilizer gun, pointed it at Cheung Man-kit, and his face was full of anger, as if a long-suppressed volcano had finally erupted.

"I've put up with you for so long...you piece of trash!!"

"BIU! BIU!"

Two soft sounds, not as explosive as a real gun, but more like the sound of an air gun.

Two red-tipped anesthetic needles were embedded in Zhang Wenjie's left arm, their tips still trembling slightly.

Everyone in the warehouse held their breath.