The truck drove for over another hour.
Zhang Chi stood in the far corner of the metal cage at the back, one hand resting against the edge of the frame. She quietly replayed everything that had happened.
She'd woken up on a plane and become a prisoner.
This island was a prison.
The Republic of Silverlight and the Empire of Auten… This island didn't belong to any map from the world she used to know. She'd never heard of it before.
The currency here was called the yuan-coin. Inflation didn't seem high—50,000 was already enough to drive someone to risk their life.
The tech in this world seemed advanced.
Serum was contraband. Selling it was a major felony.
The word "company"… seemed to carry a very specific weight.
Those armed guards from before—their bodies were encased in some kind of lightweight metal armor, except for their heads. They carried assault rifles. Their movements were precise. Their height and build were far above average.
Clang!
The truck jolted hard.
Everyone inside was thrown to one side.
Clang!
Another violent jolt. They all slammed the other way.
Zhang Chi clung tightly to the frame.
The road was rough.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The shaking didn't stop, but it started to slow down. A soft creaking sound reached her ears—like the tires were rolling over a gravel path.
Clang!
BOOM!
They hit something big. A massive bump.
Everyone was almost launched into the air.
Chaos erupted inside the truck.
Zhang Chi was wedged into the corner. She clutched two pieces of metal framing with a white-knuckled grip.
Suddenly, her palm began to burn. The heat surged until it felt like branding iron. She yanked her hand back with a hiss.
Clang. Bang.
With nothing to hold on to, her body was slammed forward like a cracker bouncing off a steel plate.
She dropped into a crouch, struggling to hold back a wave of nausea from the blow. Arms spread wide, she braced herself against the metal wall to stay upright.
Finally, the truck made it through the obstacle zone and evened out into a steady pace.
Zhang Chi slowly stood, still blinded by the black hood. She groped carefully for the spot she'd been holding earlier.
Her fingers found a bulge. Then a dent.
Rough. Uneven. Shaped like human fingers.
That solid steel wall felt like softened clay—like someone had slammed a hand into it from above and left a warped, crooked imprint.
A chill ran through her.
When they got off the truck, the prisoners were herded back into formation. One by one, guards removed their hoods.
Before them stood a massive gray structure.
Five stories tall. Cylindrical. Hollow in the center. They stood in that central space.
Each floor was built identically—matte gray metal doors, lined up wall to wall, separated by partitions. Room numbers painted on: 101, 102, 103…
One level stacked above the next, spiraling upward.
At the top was a circular glass ceiling. It let in so much light that the center of the prison was perfectly illuminated.
Moisture clung to the floor beneath their feet, while sunlight poured down from above. Every prisoner's face was so clear, you could see their pores.
Behind them was the entrance.
Above the door, three massive black characters were engraved: "Reform Camp."
On either side of the doorway, slogans were etched into metal plaques:
Left: "Labor is honorable. Laziness is shameful."
Right: "Cleanse the heart. Become a new person."
Banner across the top: "A good life for good people."
"Expected headcount: 100. Actual: 99…"
The mechanical voice came from a speaker hanging from the third floor.
Guards began unlocking the prisoners' chains.
No one dared to move.
Probably because each level had five mounted machine guns aimed downward, their barrels like camera lenses slowly scanning left to right.
They were surrounded.
"All right, get your photos taken," one of the guards barked, raising a baton and pointing toward a room in the corner of the first floor.
One by one, they entered the room, had their photo taken, came out, and reassembled.
After each person's photo, a round stamp was pressed onto the back of their hand—either blue or green.
The stamped prisoners were then split into groups accordingly.
Most had green stamps. Blue was rarer, maybe half as many.
Fifteen minutes passed. The photos weren't done yet when the sound of footsteps echoed through the prison.
At first distant and sparse, then growing denser, messier, overlapping until you couldn't tell one from the other.
Zhang Chi looked up.
A large metal door across the hall slowly opened.
A flood of prisoners in matching uniforms poured into the central space.
Whistle!
Someone let out a long, shrill whistle.
More prisoners streamed in, pointing and whispering about the new arrivals.
Guards stepped in to restore order, yelling at the inmates to return to their cells.
Some filed up the stairs to their assigned levels. Others leaned against the railings, sticking their heads out to gawk at the newcomers.
For a moment, Zhang Chi felt like she was in a zoo exhibit.
She could feel their eyes on her. Hear their whispers.
Zhou Ke wasn't faring much better.
His nervousness showed in every move—shrinking, twitching, glancing around.
One prisoner even shoved a hand into his pants just to scare him. Zhou Ke froze, eyes wide. The guy laughed like a maniac, rocking his hips like a motor engine.
All the color drained from Zhou Ke's face.
It was finally Zhang Chi's turn to be photographed.
A guard sat across from her. On the desk: a computer, a camera, and a few blinking indicator lights—possibly connected to some other unknown equipment.
Somewhere, a robotic voice spoke:
"Wei Yi. Identification confirmed."
The guard lazily scanned the screen. His right hand hovered over the green stamp…
Then his face changed.
He looked at Zhang Chi. Then at the screen. Then back at her. Then again at the screen.
Without a word, he opened a drawer to his right.
He pulled out a triangular metal chip, stood up, and pressed it into a matching socket in the locker on the wall.
The locker clicked open.
From inside, the guard removed a red stamp.
He pressed it to the back of her hand.
It radiated heat. Sharp, burning.
Dry in seconds. When she got outside, Zhang Chi discreetly scratched at it—hard, solid, unremovable.
When she stepped back into the main hall, the air changed.
Quiet.
All the prisoners hanging over the railings now stared straight at her.
More precisely—at the red stamp on her hand.
After the stamping, everyone was led to the supply room to receive their prison uniforms.
Then came room assignments.
Back in the main hall, guards handed each prisoner a slip of paper with their room number. Some numbers appeared on two slips. Others only once.
When the last paper was handed out, a guard asked, "Any questions?"
One man raised his hand.
The guard frowned. "Speak."
He pointed at the man beside him, raising his slip. "Why does he get a single?"
The guard walked over, checked both slips.
"You're both in doubles," he said.
"No we're not. He has no matching number."
"Just not among you," the guard replied.
"What does that mean?"
No answer.
The guard looked at his watch—a heavy metal device on his wrist—clearly pressed for time.
He waved everyone off to their rooms, then rushed toward the large door on the right side of the hall.
There were two staircases: one on the left, one on the right.
Zhang Chi deliberately took the one on the right, following him.
She caught bits of his comms—he was wearing an earpiece.
"…Yes…"
"…Not yet… I'll send someone now…"
"…When will the warden…"
"…understood…"
He ended the call.
Zhang Chi turned and ascended the stairs.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her sleeve.
It was Zhou Ke.
"What's your room number?" he asked, holding up his slip. "I'm on the third floor. Room 309."
Zhang Chi looked at hers. "505."
Zhou Ke asked, "Do you know what the red stamp means?"
Zhang Chi: "No. Do you?"
Zhou Ke: "Nope."
As they walked up to the second floor, Zhang Chi asked, "You got a unique room too?"
Zhou Ke said, "Seems like it. I didn't see anyone else with the same number."
He asked, "You too?"
Zhang Chi nodded.
Zhou Ke went on, "What did the guard say during your photo?"
Zhang Chi: "Nothing."
Zhou Ke blinked. "Really? He didn't read your sentence?"
"Sentence?"
"Mine was 80 years. Barely made the cut to be sent here. He even told me to behave, said we were from the same hometown…"
He kept rambling. By the time he finished, they'd reached the third floor. He turned toward his room—then noticed Zhang Chi still behind him.
"I thought you were on five?"
"Just curious. Wanted to see your room."
"…Right."
Room 309 was near the center of the floor.
Zhou Ke opened the door—and stopped.
Someone was already inside.
A huge man. Easily over six feet tall.
The room was barely ten square meters. A desk, a sink, and a bunk bed.
The man sat on the lower bunk, holding a newspaper, staring at them with a deadpan expression.
Then his gaze slid to Zhang Chi. Then to the red stamp on her hand.
He paused.
Then looked back down at his newspaper.
The paper was yellowed with age. Who knew how old it was.
Zhou Ke stepped forward. "Hey."
The man looked up. Like Zhou Ke was an idiot.
"…Okay."
Zhang Chi wandered briefly inside, mentally mapping the layout. Then turned to leave.
Zhou Ke looked from the closing door… to his cellmate… and suddenly, fear crept over him like fog.
He bolted out and grabbed Zhang Chi's sleeve.
"I—I'm gonna check out your room too."