The moment the call connected, Chen Rang's voice no longer shook.
He stared at the script's words—*Friendly Greeting*—and deliberately softened his tone, like chatting with a neighbor:
"Hello, I'm Xiao Zhang from the Elderly Service Center. I'm calling to tell you about a government-backed retirement investment program, designed especially for seniors like you…"
Some might ask: Why didn't he keep resisting? Why did he open his mouth and utter that first lie?
But only Chen Rang knew—in the northern Myanmar scam compound, *resistance* was never an option on the test. It was a survival question.
The day before, a newcomer who refused to make calls had been shocked into unconsciousness by Old Ghost, left lying in the corner of the barracks, ignored by everyone. Last month, another young man starved for five days straight, and in the end, no one dared even collect his corpse.
The rules of the compound had always been clear: *Obey, and you live. Resist, and you vanish.*
When survival itself was a luxury, pure conscience was nothing more than bait for self-destruction.
On the other end of the line was a hoarse male voice, cautious:
"What program? Never heard of it."
Chen's heart tightened. His fingertips pressed harder on the keyboard as he flipped to the "Handling Doubts" page:
"Uncle, maybe you didn't see the community notice. This project's in partnership with the bank, guaranteed principal and interest. If you invest five thousand, you'll earn eight hundred a month—way better than fixed deposits…"
He recited it fluently—even he was surprised. Just moments ago, he had resisted these words, but now they slipped out as if etched into his brain.
It wasn't the death of conscience, but his body adapting instinctively to the extreme environment: like plants in the desert shrinking their roots to preserve water, he had to shrink the boundaries of his conscience to survive in this wasteland of humanity.
Old Ghost listened nearby, his expression easing a little. His fingers tapped the desk like a ticking countdown.
Chen dared not lose focus, so he kept spinning the fantasy according to the script:
"See, Uncle, we're getting older, gotta have some flexible cash on hand. This project lets you withdraw anytime, plus earn some pocket money. Isn't that nice…"
There was silence for a few seconds. Then the man on the line sighed:
"Fine, how do I invest? My wife's been complaining money's always tight. If this really makes a bit, it'd help."
Chen's heart dropped like a stone.
He knew he'd succeeded—but that success was a thorn, stabbing his chest, sharp and numb. He could clearly picture the scene on the other side: maybe a dim little room, an old man with reading glasses pecking digits into his phone, his wife behind him waiting to buy her blood pressure meds.
The guilt tore through him. But what he knew even more was that if he hung up now, what waited for him wasn't just a beating—it was losing his qualification for the next meal.
Between "hurting a stranger" and "letting his mother lose her son," he had no choice but to pick the first.
This wasn't moral collapse—it was the cruelest survival logic in a dead end.
Swallowing the guilt, he read out the account number Old Ghost had given him in advance, his voice barely louder than a mosquito's:
"Just transfer the money to this account, Uncle. Once you're done, let me know, and I'll process it for you."
After the call, Chen slumped in his chair, every ounce of strength drained.
The screen still showed the record: call duration, three minutes forty-two seconds.
In just those three minutes, he had cheated a stranger out of five thousand yuan—and buried his conscience another inch deeper.
But he didn't cry, didn't curse himself.
Because in the compound, tears and self-blame were worthless.
Only by remembering the pain clearly could he avoid becoming completely numb.
"Well, you finally get it."
Old Ghost walked over, patted his shoulder. This time the force was lighter.
"That's right. In here, obedience keeps you alive."
He pulled a wrinkled steamed bun from his pocket and tossed it on Chen's desk.
"Here. Today's meal."
Chen stared at the bun. White, a dusting of flour on top.
It was the first whole piece of food he'd gotten since arriving in the compound—yet he had no appetite.
He thought of the man's voice on the phone.
Thought of Auntie Wang's words: *If you're in trouble, call the police.*
Then looked at the bun in his hand.
This wasn't food. It was a "survival chip," bought with strangers' trust and his own conscience.
"What, don't wanna eat?"
Old Ghost's gaze hardened.
"Still think you're too good for this? Let me tell you—getting a bun here is a blessing. Last month, a newbie went five days without food. Starved to death right in the barracks."
Chen quickly grabbed the bun and bit down.
Dry and hard, it hurt his teeth. But he forced himself to swallow.
He couldn't die.
Not out of fear of death—but because under his pillow he had a folded note. The shaky handwriting was his mother's, written before he left. The words were crooked, but clear: *Son, stay safe. Mom will wait for you to come home.*
If he died, her waiting would turn into an eternal emptiness.
If he lived, at least one day, maybe, he could say to the people he scammed, *I'm sorry.*
And prove to his mother: *Your son didn't turn completely bad.*
The next days blurred into repetition.
Up at six, wash up, report to the barracks, sit at a computer dialing strangers, reciting scripts, stealing money.
His numbers climbed—five thousand a day, then ten thousand. Old Ghost's attitude softened. Sometimes he even slipped him an extra egg.
Some might say: *He's gotten used to scamming. He's forgotten what conscience is.*
But only Chen knew.
Every night he splashed his face with cold water until his skin went numb—just to stay awake inside.
Every time he got money, he silently memorized the victim's number, thinking: *If I ever get out, I'll find a way to pay them back.*
But he spoke less and less.
At meals, he sat alone in corners.
At night, lying in the barracks bed, he shut his eyes and heard the voices of his victims—old men sighing, women crying, men shouting in anger.
He woke drenched in sweat from dreams of his mother's disappointed eyes.
Once, he dreamed he scammed her out of her savings. She clutched the phone, voice trembling: *Son, how could you turn into this?*
He woke crying, pillow soaked through.
He began to go numb.
Sometimes, he could scam pensions with a straight face.
Even joke with Old Ghost about "which age group buys the government-project story easiest."
But the numbness was only armor.
Like soldiers wear armor into battle, his "numbness" was his armor against the compound's cruel rules.
Underneath, the spark of conscience still smoldered.
That afternoon, Chen was compiling scam data like usual.
Old Ghost asked him to tally this month's performance for the group leader.
He opened the Excel sheet, fingers flying—
Then froze.
A loophole.
It was hidden in the formulas.
With a slight tweak, the performance numbers could look higher than reality—without drawing attention.
His heart raced.
This loophole—maybe it was his chance.
Some might question: *Why not just wreck the numbers? Why use it?*
But Chen knew—in this place, sabotage meant death.
Only by "playing the rules" could he carve survival space.
Like swimming in a fierce river—not fighting upstream to drown, but following the current to find a shallow.
Not compromise. Strategy.
He quickly shut the file, pretending he'd seen nothing.
Then, while Old Ghost wasn't looking, he scribbled the loophole on a scrap of paper and hid it in his shoe.
He didn't know what it could do yet.
But he knew—in this compound full of traps, even the smallest crack could be hope.
Like finding a muddy well in the desert—it might still keep you alive.
That night, tossing in his bunk, he couldn't sleep.
He thought of the loophole. Thought of his mother's address.
And a plan formed—
Use the loophole to win the group leader's trust. Then get close to the compound's core. Then find a way out.
Dangerous? Absolutely.
But "playing it safe" meant life-long imprisonment. Only "taking risks" could open a window to freedom.
Suddenly, the barracks door banged open.
A man in a black suit strode in, folder in hand, two camo guards behind him.
Chen's heart jolted. He snapped his eyes shut, pretending to sleep.
"Where's Old Ghost?" The man's voice was cold—the same Trainer who had given Chen his number.
Old Ghost scrambled up, bowing:
"Here, sir. You need me?"
"This month's report? Group leader's waiting." The Trainer's gaze swept the room, finally landing on Chen.
That look was sharp as a knife, like it could slice open his hidden plan.
Chen's pulse hammered. He could feel the Trainer's stare linger for three full seconds—each one like a century.
He held his breath, gripping the scrap of paper under his blanket—his mother's handwriting was his only courage.
"Report's here. Just a sec."
Old Ghost pulled out his laptop, opening the file.
"See, sir—this month's performance, up a lot from last. All thanks to 739."
The Trainer glanced at the screen, nodded.
Then turned back to Chen.
"739, come with me."
Chen's heart sank.
A storm of thoughts crashed: *Did they find the loophole? Did Old Ghost sell me out?*
He climbed slowly from his bed, following the Trainer out.
Outside, the night was thick. A few lamps cast yellow light, stretching their shadows long, like two lonely ghosts.
"Your performance is good," the Trainer said, voice flat, unreadable as praise or warning.
"The group leader thinks highly of you. Wants to move you to the Main Group, give you more important tasks."
Chen froze.
He hadn't expected this.
The Main Group was the compound's top unit. Better food. Private rooms. Most importantly—access to the compound's core info.
Was this the loophole opening a path?
Or just another trap?
He couldn't be sure. But he knew—it was the closest he'd come to the "core."
If he gave it up, he might never have another chance.
If he accepted, danger lurked everywhere.
But danger was still better than hopelessness.
"What's wrong? Don't want it?" The Trainer's eyes chilled.
"I do! I want it!" Chen blurted, heart pounding with both fear and excitement.
This was the closest step yet to freedom. He had to seize it.
Even if it meant fire and knives ahead—
For nothing else but that note: *Mom will wait for you to come home.*
"Good." The Trainer nodded.
"Tomorrow morning, report to the Main Group. Meet the leader. And remember—work well. Don't cause trouble."
"Yes! Thank you, sir!" Chen bowed deeply, trying to hold back the surge inside.
He could almost see it—his mother under the old tree by the village road, smiling, holding out his favorite braised pork:
"Son, you're finally back."
Back in the barracks, Chen lay awake.
He pulled out the paper from his shoe, reading the loophole note.
Then unfolded his mother's address.
Hope burned brighter than ever.
Being moved to the Main Group was only step one.
Next, he'd use the loophole, use the Main Group's access, and find a way out.
He knew—it would be more dangerous there. Eyes everywhere, traps at every turn.
But he wasn't afraid.
He'd already lived this long in hell.
A little more danger didn't matter.
The night deepened. The others slept soundly.
Only Chen lay awake, staring at the few stars, at the pale half-moon hanging weak in the sky.
He whispered inside:
"Mom, wait for me. I'll leave this place. I'll come back to you. The bad things I do now… they're only so I can one day stand tall and be good again."
What he didn't know was—the Main Group wasn't just an opportunity. It was an even bigger trap.
The group leader was Khun Sa's most trusted man—crueler than Old Ghost, sharper than the Trainer.
Chen's road was still long. Still dangerous.
But he was no longer the timid boy who entered the compound.
He had endured the baton. Endured conscience tearing. Endured numb compromise.
Now he carried determination. Patience.
He knew—only by growing stronger could he survive this hell.
Only by staying clear could he keep that flicker alive inside—never forgetting who he was, where he was going, what he had to protect.
The next morning, Chen woke early.
He put on the new clothes Old Ghost gave him—a gray jacket, worn but clean.
With his few belongings in hand, he stepped out of Group Three's barracks, heading toward the Main Group.
The sunlight fell warm across his shoulders.
But all he felt was cold.
He knew—starting today, harsher trials and greater danger awaited.
But he didn't look back.
His steps were firm.
Because behind him—was his mother's hope.