Hong Kong film: Rise of Prison Break

Only two people remained in the ward.

Robinson stood by the bed, looking at Zhang Wenjie, who seemed to be unconscious.

After a few seconds, he suddenly coughed lightly twice.

On the hospital bed, Zhang Wenjie's eyelids twitched.

Then, she slowly opened her eyes.

He didn't sit up immediately, but his eyes moved and his gaze fell on Robinson by the bed.

A faint smile appeared on that face covered in blood.

"Old man, not bad." Zhang Wenjie's voice was low, slightly hoarse from blood loss, but clear and steady. "You didn't even expose me to take credit."

Robinson's body trembled slightly.

Zhang Wenjie continued, his tone slightly playful: "Stop pretending, I know you're not coughing. I know a little about traditional Chinese medicine, and half the prisoners in this jail aren't as healthy as you."

Sometimes, a conversation can't truly begin until the unspoken understanding is broken.

Robinson's humility, fear, and aged appearance gradually faded.

His back seemed to straighten a bit, and although he was still wearing his tattered prison uniform, there was a subtle change in his eyes.

He looked at Zhang Wenjie and smiled slightly, but the smile no longer contained flattery; instead, it held something complex and difficult to describe.

"Brother Jie..." He paused, "You're not simple either."

Eyes facing each other.

Under the dim light, the two stared at each other silently for a few seconds, and then almost simultaneously, the corners of their mouths curled into a knowing smile.

"Same to you."

The sound was very soft, but in the quiet ward, it was like a stone thrown into a deep pool, creating invisible ripples.

Outside the ward, at the end of the corridor, a scarlet cigarette butt flickered in the darkness.

Ma Zhixiong leaned against the wall, exhaled a puff of smoke, and looked at the slightly ajar door of the ward. His face was expressionless as he waited quietly.

"Brother Jie, with your skills, I don't think anyone can make you submit."

Robinson's previously hunched and shrunken body slowly straightened up a little.

He first turned his head warily and glanced at the tightly closed iron door of the ward—the corridor outside the crack in the door was dimly lit and deserted.

Then, he turned back to look at Zhang Wenjie on the hospital bed, his eyes filled with inquiry and a trace of lingering surprise.

However, when he turned his head completely, the scene he saw made him slightly taken aback.

The ward door was pushed open a crack, and Ma Zhixiong's face was squeezed against the door, facing Zhang Wenjie who had sat up. He was all smiles and bowing, his attitude almost obsequious.

Zhang Wenjie, as if he had expected this, remained calm and even took out a cigarette box that was slightly crooked from being pressed down.

"As expected..." Robinson murmured, his eyes filled with complex emotions, "A man destined for great things."

Zhang Wenjie popped two cigarettes out of the pack, took one for himself, and offered the other to Robinson.

His movements were natural and casual, as if the bloody battle just now and the prison guard's flattery at this moment were just everyday trivialities.

Robinson took the cigarette, and when his fingers touched the filter, he felt that the cheap cigarette was actually a little hot.

"Click".

Zhang Wenjie lit the lighter himself, and the flame leaped up, illuminating half of his blood-stained face. He lit it first, took a deep drag, and pale smoke slowly billowed from his nostrils.

Then he shook off the cigarette ash—which fell onto the cold terrazzo floor and instantly crumbled into powder.

"To make a living in this world, you need three things." Zhang Wenjie's voice sounded a little ethereal through the smoke. He twisted his neck, and his cervical bones made a soft "crackling" sound, which was particularly clear in the quiet ward.

He raised the finger holding the cigarette and pointed at Robinson beside him: "Money! Money! And fucking money!"

He paused, a cold smile curving his lips: "But without overwhelming military power, immense wealth is no different from a child strolling down the street with a gold ingot—flashy, conspicuous, and destined for a quick death."

Robinson's hand, holding the cigarette, trembled almost imperceptibly. These words struck at the deepest, most painful spot in his heart.

"Brother Jie seems to know me quite well?" Robinson's voice was dry. He took a drag of his cigarette, the pungent smell of the cheap tobacco filling his lungs, causing him to cough twice in suppressed rage. "Unfortunately, I'm just a penniless wretch now. The three conditions you mentioned... I don't have any of them left."

He was testing the waters.

Opportunities are like fireflies in the dark night; they don't come often. If you seize one, it may not bring you good fortune; if you miss it, you may be plunged into eternal darkness.

He is 63 years old this year and was framed for murder and sentenced to ten years.

ten years!

Whether his old bones can even endure ten years of hardship in prison is a question.

Even if they manage to escape alive, they will be nearing the end of their lives, old and frail.

Meanwhile, Liu Yaozu, the bastard who killed his daughter, seized his property, and pushed him into this hell, is living a carefree life outside, spending his money, living in his house, and perhaps hasn't even visited his daughter's grave!

Thinking of all this, Robinson's breathing suddenly became rapid, his chest heaved violently, his knuckles clenched white as he gripped the cigarette, and a deep-seated hatred flashed in his cloudy old eyes.

"Hehe..." Zhang Wenjie chuckled, interrupting Robinson's almost out-of-control emotions.

He flicked away a long piece of cigarette ash, his gaze seemingly able to pierce through people's hearts.

"Money is something you can't take with you when you're born, and you can't take it with you when you die. What's the use of piling it up like a mountain?"

He turned his head to look at Robinson, a confident glint in his eyes: "With my abilities, do you think I'd ever have to worry about money?"

He paused, then brought the lighter closer to light Robinson's cigarette.

As the flames flickered, he slowly uttered the second half of his sentence, his voice not loud, but carrying a certain worldly wisdom and sharpness:

"This is the best of times..."

It was also the worst of times.

He didn't say it aloud, but Robinson understood.

This was a crazy era, a time when gold was everywhere, but traps were everywhere; heroes emerged, but tyrants also rose up.

Robinson took two deep drags on his cigarette; the pungent nicotine temporarily suppressed the burning heat and surging hatred in his heart.

He stared wide-eyed at Zhang Wenjie's young face, a face etched with untold stories: "So, what do you want from me?"

There is something to do with home.

Robinson Crusoe had lived a life of glory and enjoyed everything he could, but now he was imprisoned, all alone, and even willing to give up his life.

His only obsession was revenge!

Let that ungrateful bastard Liu Yaozu pay for his crimes in blood!

He'd trade anything and sell anything if it meant achieving his goal!

Zhang Wenjie met his gaze without flinching and gave his answer directly, clearly and coldly, like a business offer: "An equal exchange. I'll give you the chance and the power to take revenge; you, risk your life for me."

Robinson's pupils constricted slightly.

Zhang Wenjie indeed knew his identity, his grievances, and his enemies.

This intelligence capability is quite remarkable.

"I'm getting old, my bones are brittle, I can't fight for you anymore."

Robinson said in a deep voice, "This is the truth, and also a further test—he wants to know what residual value Zhang Wenjie saw in him."