Wang drifted into sleep on the couch like a man walking into a fog. The flickering light from the broken ceiling fan spun shadows across the stained walls. Cass was already snoring in her room. Outside, the city groaned like a dying animal—sirens, dogs, distant gunfire muffled by peeling drywall.
And then—
The bar.
Warm light. Cheap music. Glasses clinking. The low murmur of a dozen conversations. It felt familiar. Too familiar.
Wang looked around and realized where he was.
Shenzhen. Two years ago.
His arm was still flesh. His face wasn't scarred. His clothes didn't smell like rust and dirt.
Next to him, a girl laughed. Her voice like sunlight.
Xiaorui.
His girlfriend. Her black hair tied in a lazy ponytail. Bright eyes. That chipped front tooth she was always self-conscious about.
She leaned into him, smiling as she sipped her cocktail. "You always get weirdly quiet when you're happy," she said, teasing.
He smiled. "Just soaking it in."
And he meant it. For a brief, gut-twisting second, everything felt okay. Real. Safe. Warm.
Then the door opened.
The cold air hit like a slap.
Three guys walked in. Tall. Loud. Rich-boy jackets, slick hair, entitled swagger. Wang knew the type—sixth-gen brats. Parents in government. No rules. No soul.
The one in front spotted Xiaorui instantly.
He swaggered over, still laughing from a joke nobody told.
"Hey, sweetheart. You look too pretty to be sitting with that peasant."
Wang stiffened.
Xiaorui pulled slightly away, uncomfortable. "Please don't."
The guy smiled like a shark. "What? Just saying hello. Gotta problem with that, buddy?"
Wang kept calm. "She's with me."
The brat leaned closer to Xiaorui and brushed her shoulder with the back of his hand. "She doesn't look like she's made up her mind."
Crack.
Wang's fist hit the table.
"You touch her again, I'll fucking break you."
The guy turned to him slowly. His grin faded.
Then he slammed a bottle over Wang's head.
CRASH.
The glass shattered. The bar erupted in shouts. Xiaorui screamed.
Wang reeled back, blood streaming down his forehead.
"You know who I am, dumbass?" the brat shouted, breath reeking of baijiu. "My father is an official! I'm untouchable! You hear me? Fucking untouchable!"
Wang's ears rang. Blood dripped down his face. Everything spun.
Then he saw it—a shard of the broken bottle near his foot. Gleaming under the light.
Something inside him snapped.
He grabbed the shard.
Lunged.
And stabbed.
Straight into the brat's stomach.
The sound wasn't loud. It was soft. Wet. A gasp. A sudden, stunned silence.
Then—chaos.
One of the guy's friends tackled Wang. Fists flew. Another booted him in the ribs. Wang fought back like a cornered dog. Punches. Screams. Xiaorui crying. A chair breaking. Blood splattering the wall.
He didn't feel pain. Just fury. Survival.
They kicked him. Over and over. Fists cracked into his jaw. Teeth scraped tile. His vision blurred red.
He could barely breathe. His fingers were still clenched around the bloody shard.
Then—sirens.
Police flooded the bar.
Everything stopped.
One of the brats shouted, "That bastard tried to kill him! He's a fucking maniac!"
Wang tried to speak, but all that came out was blood.
His ears buzzed. The cuffs went on.
Cold. Tight. Final.
Next thing he remembered—
Courtroom. Stale air. A crooked judge. Slick lawyers. Cameras.
They called him a thug. A nobody. A threat to society.
The official's son? He survived. Played the victim. Milked it for press.
Wang's public defender didn't even try.
"Attempted murder in the first degree."
Guilty.
Wang sat alone, shackled, as they read the sentence.
And then—
Darkness.
His heart thudded hard.
And he woke up.
SNAP.
He bolted upright on the couch, chest heaving.
Sweat clung to his bare chest. His towel had fallen off in his sleep. The room was dark, the fan still spinning slow like a lazy guillotine above him.
He was in Adelaide.
In Prisonland.
The couch springs creaked under him. His breath trembled. His robotic hand twitched unconsciously.
Cass's voice echoed in his head.
"Life is cheap here."
Wang ran a hand over his face. The scar on his cheek still fresh. The ghost of the broken bottle still burned into his memory.
He sat there, breathing, staring at the flickering lightbulb overhead, until morning.
Q: Have you ever been wronged before?