I bought a prison in the United States.

In a corner of the factory, old Foster sat on a plastic chair with a cardboard box on his lap.

The cardboard box contained screws, washers, and rivets that needed to be sorted.

This was the task Ling Ge assigned him: to separate the various small parts that were mixed together according to their size and model.

It doesn't require any special skills or physical strength, just patience and a pair of eyes that can still distinguish sizes.

Foster picked up a screw, looked at it closely, and put it into the small box on the left.

He picked up another washer, looked at it, and put it in the box on the right.

Although the work was a bit slow, it was far more productive than doing nothing in the prison cell.

His fingers trembled slightly from age, but he could still manage to grip the small metal parts.

The roar of the factory machines filled the air around him.

The sounds of the stamping machine, the clatter of the sewing machine, and the low murmurs of the prisoners' conversations.

All these sounds blended together, creating a background noise that was almost numbing.

Foster quietly sorted through the parts amidst the noise, his thoughts drifting back to a distant place.

He was thinking about the incident twenty years ago that had brought him here.

For many years, that incident remained like a red-hot iron brand deep within his consciousness, causing him excruciating pain whenever he thought about it.

So he learned not to think about it.

He buried that piece of iron with his daily prison life, covering it layer by layer with the gray sky he saw during his exercise breaks.

But Randy's question this morning lifted a corner of that covering.

"Why were you brought in?"

Foster did not answer Randy, but he knew for himself that it was because he had killed someone.

That man's name was Howard Beasley, and he was his foreman at the oil field.

Beasley withheld three months' salary from him, claiming that he had lost a batch of drill bits.

But Foster didn't lose the drill bits; it was Beasley who sold them to another drilling company and then shifted the blame onto him.

Foster went to argue with Beasley, who mocked him, saying that a Vietnam War veteran couldn't even keep an eye on a few drills, no wonder the United States lost that war.

Foster had drunk a lot of alcohol at the time.

He didn't remember how he picked up that iron pipe.

All he remembered was that when he regained consciousness, Beasley was lying on the ground, and the shape of his head was different from that of a normal person.

He should have been convicted of first-degree murder, but his lawyers secured a charge of manslaughter for him, resulting in a 25-year sentence.

According to the law, one can apply for parole after serving 15 years of imprisonment.

But after he served his full fifteen-year sentence and applied for parole, the parole board rejected his application.

The reason given was that he did not behave actively enough during his imprisonment.

He didn't apply again because he didn't know where he could go after he got out.

His wife remarried in the third year after he went to prison and moved to another state.

My parents have passed away, and I've long since lost contact with my siblings.

His comrades either died on the battlefield or in their lives after returning home.

For him, the prison was no longer just a place to serve his sentence; it had become a home in every sense of the word.

It was a terrible home, but it was still a home.

He's gotten used to this place and can't live without it.

Foster continued sorting the parts, one by one, at a leisurely pace.

At the other end of the factory, "Ghost Fang" could not be seen.

He never goes into the factory to work.

The prison guards didn't force him to go to the factory, and he didn't cause trouble there, which was the best that could happen.

"Ghost Fang" is currently standing in the exercise yard.

The exercise yard is a rectangular open space behind the main prison building, about the size of a basketball court.

The ground was compacted soil, with a few sparse clumps of tenacious wild grass growing in the middle.

The surrounding area was a three-meter-high barbed wire fence, with several holes hastily repaired with wire.

The sky was grayish-white.

Foster was right, things are about to change.

The clouds hung low and were heavy, as if someone had covered Tulsa with an old blanket.

The wind blew from the northwest, bringing with it the smell of dust and withered grass from the Oklahoma wilderness.

"Tsk! This lousy place."

"Ghost Fang" stood beside the barbed wire fence, his hands in his pockets, gazing at the world outside.

Outside the barbed wire fence is a county road, its surface riddled with potholes and hasn't been maintained in a long time.

Occasionally, a vehicle would pass by, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Across the road was a wasteland, overgrown with withered yellow weeds and a few crooked, short trees.

Further away, the outline of Tulsa city can be seen.

A few buildings of moderate height, a water tower, and the oil refinery chimney that always emits white steam.

"Ghost Fang" is looking at the water tower.

When he was in Los Angeles, he could see the Hollywood sign from the window of his apartment.

Huge white letters stood upright on the hillside, gleaming in the sunlight.

He was seventeen years old at the time, and had recently smuggled himself from Mexico. He was working at a car wash.

He had assumed those letters represented opportunity, wealth, and the American Dream.

Now he knew that the letters were just a pile of white sheet metal, supported by a steel frame on the hillside, and periodically repainted.

Just like all the rules in this prison, everything that looks solid.

They are all just sheet metal.

He learned this skill from the 18th Street gang.

They made him collect protection money, beat people up, and deliver some happy powder to those sickly people.

With each task he undertakes, he takes a step closer to his dream of becoming an American.

When he had money, women, henchmen, and people who would bow their heads when they met him on the street, he was arrested.

Those incompetent police officers had long ago obtained evidence of his drug trafficking, but they couldn't catch him.

He killed two people in a gang fight and accidentally got himself into trouble.

One was a member of a rival gang, and the other just happened to be passing by.

The second person's death gave the judge grounds to sentence him to life imprisonment.

Even if he appealed, it would be rejected immediately, so "Ghost Fang" quickly gave up on the idea because he had figured out something else.

This prison is not much different from the outside world.

There are rules outside and rules inside.

Outside, power belongs to the rich and politicians.

Within it, power belongs to those who can instill fear in others.

He is the latter outside, and he can be the latter inside too!

But recently, "Ghost Fang" felt his position was threatened because of the drug lord who arrived three months ago.

"Blue Snake" is one of the few people who are not afraid of him.

He was no stronger or more ferocious than "Ghost Fang," but he had an organization behind him that was bigger than the 18th Street Gang.

Mexican drug cartels have a deep-rooted influence in the U.S. prison system, from California to Texas, from federal prisons to county correctional centers.

They recruit members in prisons, pass messages, and even remotely control businesses outside.

"Blue Snake" is a node on this network.

In his view, the "demon tooth" was merely a severed end.