The morning sun had just spilled over the compound's barbed-wire fence. In the golden light, the twisted razor wire glinted cold and hard. On one of the spikes, a few tattered gray-brown strips of cloth still clung—left behind, maybe, by someone who had once tried to escape.
Chen Rang stood in front of the Main Group's office building with a simple bag on his back. His fingers rubbed nervously at the strap, while cold sweat soaked his undershirt through.
The building was three stories of concrete, much sturdier than the prefab barracks. The white paint on the outside walls was peeling, exposing jagged scars of gray cement beneath. Two guards in camouflage stood at the entrance, boots thudding heavily against the ground. They held rifles pointed downward, but always angled toward newcomers. The butts of their guns were still stained with dried brown blotches. Up close, it carried the faint iron scent of old blood.
Their eyes were hawk-like, scanning every inch of Chen Rang—his face, his bag, even the clenched fist in his pocket. Compared to Group Three's shabby barracks, this place felt like a prison. The difference was, the "prey" inside weren't criminals—they were high-value scam tools. And the guards' fangs here were sharper.
"Number 739?" one guard barked, blocking him. His voice was as cold and hard as ice striking glass. He tapped the butt of his rifle against his thigh with each word, and every thump made Chen's heart jolt.
"The leader's in Room 302, third floor. Be smart in there. Don't ask what you shouldn't. Don't look at what you shouldn't."
When he spoke, his lip curled, exposing a broken front tooth. Black filth lodged in the crack. The contempt in his eyes pierced Chen like needles.
Chen nodded quickly, squeezing the little paper square in his palm—the note with the loophole he'd discovered. Folded tight, damp with sweat, the edges dug painfully into his skin. He followed the guard into the building.
The corridor was eerily silent. Their footsteps echoed like drumbeats, each one making his chest seize. The walls were painted a dull gray, stained yellow near the bottom. Up close, the stains formed irregular patches with cracked edges—like dried blood.
At the end of the hallway sat a trash bin. Inside lay half a broken electric baton. Its tip was warped and bent, still tangled with a few burnt strands of hair. The air stank faintly of scorched flesh mixed with cheap tobacco, making Chen's throat tighten.
The door to Room 302 was ajar, light leaking through the crack. From inside came the faint "zzzt" of live current—like a baton charging.
The guard knocked. His knuckles against the wood were piercing in the quiet hall. A low voice from within:
"Come in."
Chen pushed the door. The hinges shrieked like a tortured cry.
The office air reeked of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and a faint trace of blood. It made him cough.
The room wasn't large. A massive redwood desk dominated the center. Deep knife gouges scarred the surface, and one corner was stained dark red with something that even fingernails couldn't scratch off. A laptop sat open, screen filled with endless client data. Piles of files leaned on one side, some pages curled, others stained with dried brown blotches—blood.
In the corner loomed a black safe with deep pry marks across its door. A paper sign taped to it read *Unauthorized Keep Out*. The border of the sign was scrawled in red marker, thick like a bloodline.
Behind the desk sat a man in a black shirt, slicked-back hair, collar open to show a scar running from collarbone to chin—a knife wound. A cigarette hung loose in his fingers, ashes tumbling onto his black slacks. He didn't care. Smoke curled around sharp, merciless eyes.
This was the Main Group's leader. Khun Sa's right hand. They called him *Black Wolf*.
"Heard your numbers are good," Black Wolf said. His voice was flat, his nail tapping the desk in a slow rhythm, like a countdown for prey.
"Old Ghost says you pick things up fast. Even know some computer stuff?"
As he spoke, his left hand brushed the knife at his waist. Black hilt wrapped in worn grip cloth.
Chen's stomach clenched. He dropped his gaze instantly to his shoes—old canvas sneakers with holes at the toe, white lining showing through.
"It's… it's all thanks to Old Ghost's teaching. I just follow the rules," he stammered. His voice shook. He dared not meet Black Wolf's eyes. That gaze was sharper, crueller than Old Ghost's—like it could strip him bare, peel even the smallest scrap of hope.
Black Wolf sneered, grinding his cigarette into a makeshift ashtray—a rusty army can, stuffed with butts. Between the butts, tiny bones stuck out. Animal—or human, who could say?
"In the Main Group, just 'following rules' isn't enough," Black Wolf said, leaning forward, hands clasped, scar lit stark under the lamp.
"You gotta show value."
He pointed at the wall behind him. A photo was pinned there, yellowed at the edges. In it, a man's back faced the camera. His hands tied behind a rusted pole, gray pants soaked with stains. His shirt torn open, back crisscrossed with bloody welts. In the distance, stray dogs circled, eyes gleaming with hunger.
"Last month, 821 fell short by fifty grand," Black Wolf murmured, voice light but colder than ice.
"I sent him up the back hill to 'reflect.' Next day, we found nothing but half his pants and a shoe. The dogs were still licking blood off their jaws. Want to end up like him?"
Sweat poured down Chen's back, sliding into his waistband like ice. His throat locked tight. His heart hammered, ribs rattling. In that instant, he understood—the Main Group's "perks" weren't rewards. They were bought with higher stakes. One wrong step, and you didn't just starve. You died.
"Scared?" Black Wolf smirked at his pale face, his trembling shoulders.
"Good. Fear means you'll work hard. From today, you handle core client data. Every day before you leave, you hand me a report. These clients are premium. If there's a mistake—"
He pointed to a black box under the desk, its lid ajar. Inside gleamed silver electric batons, tips glinting.
"You know the consequences."
He tossed a thick file onto the desk. The slap made Chen flinch. The sharp paper edges nicked his finger, a bead of blood dripping onto the cover.
Chen picked it up, hands shaking. Dozens of client profiles filled the pages. Names, numbers, home addresses—alongside personal photos. Elderly strolling in parks. Fathers with children. A pregnant woman's ultrasound printout.
Beside each, red notes: *Lives alone, pension 8,000.* *Scared of wife, hides money in balcony flowerpot.* *Son studying abroad, won't call police.*
These weren't just random targets. These were carefully dissected "high-value assets." Every weakness, every fear, catalogued into weapons.
Chen's gut turned cold. The Main Group's "core work" wasn't just fraud. It was precision cruelty—draining people not just of savings, but dignity.
---
That afternoon, Chen sat at his new desk on the second floor. Above him blinked a red surveillance light, a never-closing eye. The computer was newer, faster than Group Three's. Spotless keyboard, faint smell of disinfectant clinging to its edges—mixed with a trace of blood.
On the screen, the core database scrolled. Some entries tagged *Exhausted—discard*. Others: *High potential—follow closely.* And some: *Resisted—process.*
That last word, bold and red, was death.
Chen typed, but his mind spun back to the loophole. If he wanted Black Wolf's trust, if he wanted a chance out, that loophole was his only card.
"739! Pull up last week's core report. I'm checking," Black Wolf's voice snapped from his office. Even through the door, it carried sharp authority. A knife clicking open.
Chen's heart leapt. *The chance.*
He pulled up the report. Normal totals: 860,000. Enough to pass. But he remembered the photo on the wall. The box of batons.
He gritted his teeth, slipped into the formula, nudged a number. Just enough to add twenty thousand. New total: 880,000. Not outrageous—just "better."
His wound stung as he hit save. A reminder: one mistake meant death.
The printer whirred, warm sheets sliding out. He carried them to Room 302, knuckles white on the door.
"Come in."
Black Wolf took the report, eyes scanning, finger tapping. Each scrape of nail on paper made Chen's heart race harder.
"Hmm?" Black Wolf frowned suddenly. His finger landed on the number.
"Why's last week's total twenty grand higher than I expected?" His tone sharpened, eyes slicing through Chen.
Chen's stomach lurched. Sweat soaked his shirt. His brain spun.
"Leader, it was a last-minute client. An old man, surname Liu. He'd planned ten grand. But when I talked about saving for his grandson's tuition, he added two more. I hadn't had time to report it."
He prayed Black Wolf wouldn't check—because Liu was fiction.
Black Wolf's eyes drilled into him for several long seconds. The silence was suffocating.
Then, slowly, Black Wolf's brows eased. A cold smile tugged his lips.
"Smart. Know how to grab a client's weakness. Keep it up. The Main Group doesn't short good men." He waved him off.
"Tomorrow, bring me a full follow-up record on this client. Every detail."
Relief washed over Chen so strong his knees nearly buckled. He bowed quickly, turned, nearly stumbled into the doorframe.
In the hall, he leaned against the wall, gasping. His chest heaved. His heart still thundered. But he knew—this gamble had worked.
The loophole had passed its first test.
---
In the days that followed, Chen worked carefully. Each report adjusted only slightly—two grand, three grand, never more than five. Numbers crept upward. Black Wolf's satisfaction grew. He gave Chen more access—core client tracking, even glimpses into Khun Sa's logistics.
But cruelty here never slept.
One afternoon, voices flared in the hall. Chen peeked through a crack. A woman in gray work clothes was dragged past by guards. Her hair wild, face swollen with handprints, blood on her lip. Her knees cracked hard against the floor as they kicked her down.
"Let me go! I only missed one damn grand!" she screamed, sobbing.
"My son's in the hospital—he needs money!"
The guards ignored her pleas, dragging her into Black Wolf's office.
Moments later, her screams ripped through the walls—raw, animal, electric zaps hissing in between. Furniture crashed. The sounds lasted ten minutes before fading into silence.
When the guards carried out a black sack, dark liquid seeped from the bottom, painting a red trail across the floor. A cleaner came, scrubbing hard. But the stain never vanished—only dulled to brown, blending into the corridor's other scars.
From then on, Chen wiped his keyboard clean each night. Checked his edits thrice. Because he knew—even a fingerprint out of place could mean ending up in a sack.
---
One late night, Chen worked alone. The surveillance light blinked overhead. Black Wolf's office still glowed. Through the door came his muffled voice on the phone.
Chen froze when he caught words: *Khun Sa. Transfer funds. Border passage.*
His pulse spiked. He crept closer, ear to the crack, lips pale.
"…Tomorrow, move the batch to Account Three. Ah Li escorts it, with five brothers. All armed. Use the backhill passage. Two a.m. Don't let patrols spot you. Remember—the passage has infrared. Trigger it, kill the man. Leave no trace."
Chen staggered back to his desk, chest hammering, sweat soaking the loophole note in his pocket. *Backhill passage. Two a.m. Infrared.*
This was it. A thread of escape.
He quickly opened a hidden folder, typing everything into an encrypted file. Changed the font to system gray, buried it deep.
This was hope. His lifeline. If discovered—it would be death, worse than the baton.
As he hit save, the office door creaked open. The sound tore through the quiet.
Black Wolf stepped out, wearing a black vest. From its pocket peeked—