- Three Weeks Later - Labor Camp - China
"Huff... huff... puff... Ugh... mmph... huff..." Erik pushed through another endless series of push-ups, sweat dripping steadily down his face.
"Why build yourself?" Came a gravelly voice from above him.
Erik glanced up, seeing an old man perched on the top of one of the four bunk beds that crowded the small cell.
The man's face was weathered, marked with age and experience but his eyes were sharp with curiosity.
"I'm not meant to die in here." Erik responded, sitting cross-legged on the cold hard floor.
His voice was calm but carried a quiet intensity.
The cells were lined up side by side, separated only by thick iron bars. The dim light cast long shadows across the concrete, adding to the bleak atmosphere.
His eyes swept the row of cells, pausing briefly on each face behind the bars.
They were all chinese men. Most of them young.
The harsh work conditions and lack of proper nutrition had taken a visible toll.. Every one of them was thin, almost frail.
None of them were particularly tall either. The average height seemed to hover around five-foot-six.
His eyes caught those of an inmate in the neighboring cell. Couldn't have been more than nineteen, maybe twenty.
His expression was unreadable, eyes steady and unblinking.
After a moment, Erik looked away, brushing off the silent exchange.
He was used to strange looks by now. He was the only foreigner in this place, after all.
More than that.. He was a black man, in a time and part of the world where most, particularly in the countryside had never even seen one in person.
He'd gotten used to people gawking, reaching out to touch his hair like it was some kind of artifact.
A few had even rubbed at his skin, confused, like they thought the color might come off.
It didn't bother him much. He knew that most of them weren't being cruel.. They were just ignorant. They didn't know better.
So he taught them. Calm, respectful, but firm. That was enough.
"Here, there. What's the difference?" The old man muttered in a resigned tone, his voice heavy with the weight of years spent behind bars.
Erik chuckled softly in response, shaking his head as he stood up.
All the workers wore the same basic clothing, with only slight variations in color to distinguish them.
Winter had set in, and the past weeks had grown bitterly cold. Despite this, the prisoners were issued nothing more than thin ragged garments.
Erik pulled on his flimsy vest as the doors to the cells creaked open.
He stepped out of his, the old man trailing silently behind him.
The air outside was biting, the first hints of snow clinging to the cold ground but not yet enough to cover it.
A gray, overcast sky loomed above the camp, casting a dim light over the bleak surroundings.
The camp was surrounded by towering fences topped with sharp barbed wire.
Armed guards stood at regular intervals their rifles slung over their shoulders as they watched the prisoners with cold, detached eyes.
A sense of quiet tension hung over the camp, broken only by the occasional barked command from a guard or the distant clanging of metal.
Erik stepped into the line of prisoners, blending in among the others as they shuffled slowly toward the area where breakfast was being served.
He watched with detached interest as one by one, they received their rations. Small wooden cups filled with a thin, watery soup.
When it was his turn, Erik held out his cup as a guard lazily ladled the so-called "soup" into it.
He looked down inside the recipient.. It was more like cloudy water, barely any substance to it at all.
The liquid swirled in the bottom of the cup, almost transparent.
It had no real smell, no weight, just the faintest tint of something that might once have been food.
The other prisoners barely reacted, taking their rations with the same dead-eyed acceptance.
Erik, however, examined the cup with a slight curl of his lip before stepping out of line and moving toward the edge of the yard, taking a seat on a cold bench as he stared down at the watery breakfast.
"They're going to fight you!" Muttered his old cellmate beside him, his voice low and resigned.
Erik lifted his head, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the group approaching from across the yard.
At the front of the group, was the same guy he had locked eyes with earlier. He was flanked by one teenager and two others young adults each with the same hardened look and aggressive demeanor.
Erik's expression shifted to one of irritation as he recognized some of them.
"Fightin' again?" He asked, half to himself.
"Yes.. Until they kill you !" Responded the old man, his voice barely audible.
His words hung in the cold air, heavy and resigned, as if he'd seen this story play out too many times before.
Erik didn't respond immediately, his sharp gaze fixed on the approaching group.
He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension building in his muscles feeling the cold bite against his skin through the thin fabric of his vest.
His breath formed small clouds in the icy air as he glanced briefly at the old man, a flicker of something like amusement in his eyes.
"They can try." Erik said calmly, his voice carrying a quiet confidence that belied his age.
Since his arrival, he had been forced into several fights.
As the youngest in the camp, most assumed he was easy prey. An opportunity to steal his already meager rations.
At least, that's what he thought.
These attacks usually happened out of sight, away from the watchful eyes of the guards.
But it hadn't taken long for the others to realize that Erik was no ordinary nine-year-old.
After three weeks, most had learned to leave him alone.
And yet, here they were again.
Among the group were two faces he'd already beaten once before.
"They never learn.." He muttered under his breath, rising slowly from his seat.
Until now, he'd held back during fights. He didn't want to injure anyone too seriously. Most of the inmates here weren't monsters.
Some were here because of debts—either their own or inherited from family. Others were petty thieves or just people who'd pissed off the wrong person. Hardly the kind of people who deserved death.. Or a lifelong injury.
But Erik was running low on patience.
He tilted his head back, staring up at the grey, overcast sky. Cold air filled his lungs as he breathed in deep.
Three weeks... He thought to himself. Should I bounce? Maybe I made the wrong call coming here.
The doubt crept in like a chill under the skin.
Ain't no way I'm stickin' around in this sh#*hole for months. His jaw tightened.
People tryna jump me every other day... This food... These damn bars and fences... And this fuckin' cold.
His frustration was building, bubbling just beneath the surface. And then the leader of the small group stepped forward, stopping directly in front of him.
He was taller, towering over Erik with a cruel grin stretching across his face.
Without warning, he slapped his breakfast right out of his hands, the watery soup splattering uselessly onto the frozen ground.
"You in hell.." The young man growled in a broken english with a thick accent.
He spat on the ground, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head back. His face inches from his.
"And I'm the devil!" He snarled balling his fist and swinging it straight at Erik's guts.