Zhang Chi's eyes landed on the scales tattooed on the muscular man's right arm.
In Roman myth, the goddess Justitia holds scales in her left hand and a sword in her right—balance without enforcement is futile, enforcement without balance is tyranny. And with her eyes blindfolded, she embodies true, impartial justice.
A prison block called "Black Ward"—and they have the nerve to talk about justice?
"I'm not interested."
Her gaze dropped to the uniform he was holding—hang tag reading "110."
The man shrugged. "Seems you still don't know enough about the High Judge."
Zhang Chi raised an eyebrow.
He pointed at the back of her hand. "Didn't you notice? You're the only red-tag they've attacked this week."
She frowned. "What? This has to do with the Judges?"
He didn't answer directly. "Weekdays aren't friendly to red-tags like us. But you've spotted the loophole."
"What loophole?"
He smiled. "You haven't figured it out? Then why do you keep inserting yourself into the crowd?"
She went silent.
He explained: "A dropped ID tag can only transfer points via a wristband scan. No one wants to give away their kill. No one wants to sew another's glory. Everyone wants the credit for themselves."
He went on: "For us, the safest move is staying within the group."
"Why was I the only one attacked?" she pressed.
"Because you have no organization."
She remained silent.
"Red-tags can't kill fellow inmates on weekdays. As long as they strike before the end-of-week tally, there's no risk of retaliation. But if they know someone's waiting to avenge you, what happens?"
"No one dares touch you. Points only tally on Sunday. Even if someone accumulates enough to get out on Monday, they still have to survive until Sunday at 9pm to cash out."
She scoffed. "Sounds like you're in a cozy little family."
He neither agreed nor disagreed.
"So that's why none of the other red-tags got attacked? You're all Judges?"
He shook his head.
He gestured to a line of men walking toward the cafeteria. "There's also the Tiger faction."
"Tigers?"
"Twenty-one red-tags here. Eight with the Tigers, twelve with us—the Judges. You're the newcomer."
She glanced at the hallway. "Don't tell me you're bickering over turf?"
He shrugged: "Where there are people, there's conflict. Besides, this system won't allow peace."
"Someone's always going to die."
"You should consider yourself lucky. Lots of red-tags want Judge protection. It's hard finding a shelter these days."
She looked at the people passing. "You're courting me so I don't join the Tigers?"
He smiled: "You could still choose them—and we become rivals." He paused. "The guy who slept in your bunk before was with the Tigers."
"Are you threatening me?"
"No, just helping you analyze. You can choose either side. I'm just the messenger."
"Who are you delivering messages for?"
"That's not your concern."
"Sorry. I don't want to choose anyone." She turned. "I'm used to going it alone."
"No one here goes it alone. Red-tags must pick Judge or Tiger. If you pick neither, both become your enemies." His voice followed her, low and steady:
"Pick one: you'll halve your enemies. We never kill our own."
She didn't look back.
After lunch, no time to return to the dorm. The weaving workshop was empty—maybe the rain had stopped, or many were heading to the mines to earn points. She ran to the workshop, clocking in at exactly 12:58.
Inside, she passed Zhou Ke, who only glanced at her before entering.
After days of practice, her weaving had improved dramatically.
She could now weave two teddy bears within an hour.
She turned and saw the muscular man not far behind her. At his station were three knitted bunnies. His large, coarse hands manipulated a thick knitting needle with the precision of embroidery—a striking sight.
How long had he been here?
A thought flickered.
Later, she went for water. Three people there at first. When she came out, someone was leaning against the wall between the water area and hallway, foot propped against the wall, idly tapping their fingers. This clearly wasn't a water run. As she exited, he approached.
"082?"
The morning chill clutched her as she noticed his tag—888.
Lucky number, she thought.
"Something you need?"
"Judges contacted you?"
"Why?"
"Nothing—just a reminder. Last month's dead blue-tag and red-tag were all Judge people."
She considered. "You're Tiger?"
"I'm the Tiger leader," 888 said proudly, creasing his smile-laden face.
"What do you say—sincere, right?"
"The Judges always do this: sending out someone like 110 to take the fall. Showboating. They still think we're back in San Jin City. Their boss? A blue-tag. They don't prize strength, only bloodlines. Nepotism. Newcomers get used."
Zhang Chi frowned.
888's voice dropped, tone malicious: "And they kill their own."
Her expression flickered.
888's smile widened: "Join us, and we're equals."
She asked flatly, "Finished?"
He seemed confused. "What?"
"Done talking? Move."
Stepping past his outstretched leg while he blinked, she strode back to her station.
At 5pm, everyone cleaned their tables. The muscular man joined her.
"Did 888 contact you?" he asked.
She placed buttons in the drawer, glanced at him, then resumed packing pens and thread.
"He told you we kill our own?"
She paused mid-movement.
For a moment, it felt like a job fair—two HR reps bidding and badmouthing each other, fully versed in recruitment tactics.
He said: "That's all he's got. Tigers have nothing. They took in society's trash."
"They're rule-breakers—rapists, child abusers, those who turn on their own. We are the Judges—not criminals."
"Our edge is we dare for profit—but even we have limits."
She stayed silent.
He frowned. "Are you mocking me?"
She looked up: "I said I don't want to join."
Pulling the drawer shut and brushing dust off her desk, she stood. He planted his hand on the desk—a wall of muscle blocking her.
"Your reason."
She lifted her head, taking in his stubble-clear jawline: "I don't do deals with criminals."
He stared, lips curling: "Who do you think you are? A righteous avenger?"
"People with clean hands don't end up here," he said quietly. "You're a red-tag—you committed a heavier crime than 19% of the people here. So now you're reformed and want to start fresh?"
Zhang Chi said nothing.
The muscular man tilted his head toward the door, pointing at the line of inmates walking one by one through the metal detector. To prevent anyone from smuggling items out of the workplace, each prisoner was scanned before leaving.
Following his finger, Zhang Chi spotted someone familiar.
Zhou Ke.
"That 333 who came in with you," the man said. "Do you know why he's ignoring you now? His cellmate's with the Tigers. He sold himself to get in. He's got backup now. He has an organization—you don't. That's why he looks down on you."
Zhang Chi frowned slightly.
"In here," the man went on, "there are no friends—only benefits. If you've got no one watching your back, it doesn't matter if you're blue-tag, green-tag, or red-tag—you're just a target. No one wants to be seen with a target."
"You should be grateful. Lucky for you, you've got some skills. That's why we noticed you."
He sneered. "Don't go thinking you're hot stuff just because the Tigers want you too."
"Everyone in here wants to join a group. Being a loner doesn't make you special—it just gets you killed faster."
"You talk too much," Zhang Chi muttered, brushing past him and slipping out from the seat.
The man's expression darkened as he watched her back retreat. Then suddenly, he chuckled.
"Well. At least you're not going over to the Tigers. A red-tag worth a thousand points—that's still a decent asset for us."
Choosing neither side meant no one would protect her. Killing her would carry no consequences. Anywhere, anytime, without hesitation.
Zhang Chi paused mid-step.
His voice came from behind. "Hope you live to see settlement day."
The walk from the weaving workshop to the cafeteria took about ten minutes. Prisoners walked fast. As soon as work ended, no one lingered—there were no bosses here, and playing the overachiever didn't earn promotions.
Zhang Chi deliberately slowed down, letting everyone pass her. Then she matched the tail end of the group's pace. The rain had mostly stopped, and by 5:00 p.m. the ground was dry. Since the weaving workshop was indoors, inmates from there didn't need to use the showers.
Once she made sure everyone had joined the food line, Zhang Chi turned and slipped into the showers instead.
The inmates from the mines and farmlands were still en route, so the shower room was completely empty.
She ran straight to the single-person stalls, opening and closing each door to check for hiding spots. Once she was certain it was safe, she ducked into the last stall, locked the door, and reached for the wall-mounted metal soap holder.
It was secured by four screws—two on the left, two on the right, positioned in the corners. Zhang Chi pressed her finger hard on the upper-left screw. Heat surged beneath her fingertip, and with a slight tug, the subtly distorted screw popped loose into her palm.
She slipped it into her pocket, stepped back to study the wall—showerhead directly above, soap box at eye level—then moved forward to unscrew the top-right screw. In her hand, she split it into two parts: the cap and the tail. These were long screws—split in half, each piece was still nearly the size of a fingernail.
She screwed the cap back in, then flattened the tail into a rounded head the same size. From her pocket, she retrieved the earlier screw and etched a pentagon into the center—every screw here was five-sided.
The handmade version wasn't perfect, but from a distance, the discrepancy was nearly invisible. She fit the fake screw back into the empty slot on the soap holder and gently pressed the cap in place. It blended seamlessly.
Three screws—two and a half, really—were more than enough to hold a bar of soap. The fake cap was now part of the structure.
Footsteps echoed faintly outside.
Her arms ached from the effort. Sweat soaked her back. She pocketed the stolen screw and opened the door—then froze.
The floor shouldn't be dry after someone showered.
Inmates from the mines and farmlands began trickling in, water splashing as they washed off the dust.
Zhang Chi quickly removed the showerhead, turned on the faucet, and soaked the floor. She rubbed soap between her hands, filled the room with a strong fragrance, then wet the soap holder, the shelf, and every surface within her reach. After shutting off the tap, she walked out in one smooth motion.
After dinner, Zhang Chi returned to her cell immediately. She locked the door, sat on the bed. The desk inside each cell faced the door squarely—anyone could be seen through the peephole.
She leaned against the wall, taking position on the bed closest to the door. She'd stood on tiptoe earlier to check—this spot was a perfect blind spot.
Normally, the guards didn't patrol the dorm building until 10:00 p.m., but better safe than sorry—and who knew what might show up besides guards?
Zhang Chi pulled out the screw and rolled it between her palms, rubbing hard. Five minutes later, she had a single-headed needle longer than her hand—thicker than a normal sewing needle, but slightly slimmer than a knitting one. One end retained the pentagonal screw head; the other tapered to a sharp, deadly point.
She flipped open the prison-issued Point Manual, and stabbed it right into the editor's name: "Zhou Yu."
The needle pierced halfway through the manual.
Zhang Chi put the needle away, crouched, and lifted the metal bedframe. It was made of hollow tubes, welded together. She lay flat on the floor, slid the needle into one of the side pipes, and carefully tucked it away.
She brushed off her hands and stood. Her gaze fell on a small round mark on the floor—an indentation from the bedpost that hadn't moved in years. The tile beneath was visibly darker than the surrounding floor.
She crouched again, adjusted the angle slightly, then, satisfied, went to wash her hands.
Every gang starts with one purpose: survival. No one wants to live every day dodging knives in the dark. So they band together, and one rule forms immediately: don't hurt your own. That rule halves their enemies.
But the size of a gang must be controlled. Too small—no deterrent. Too big—who's left to be the sacrificial lamb?
The weak beg to join, and the gang rejects them just as ruthlessly. They need bodies—disposable ones. New inmates come in waves. If someone shows value, they get recruited.
Gang wars cause casualties. But is it the gang members who die the most?
Not necessarily.
Two rival factions are like two massive fish. When they collide, blood spills. So they avoid collision. Instead, they feast on the small, defenseless ones.
110 and 888 were both lying.
All that talk about red-tags dying—it was just posturing, trying to inflate their value and diminish the other's.
They weren't recruiting her to protect her. They just didn't want a direct clash. They were still trying to grow, but they feared losses. They wouldn't make a move until they were sure of victory.
She mattered. If she were one of their leaders, they wouldn't rush it. What if they failed to kill her in one strike—and she defected? No, they'd watch her longer.
Unless she proved herself powerful—so powerful that the cost of killing her became too high. That's the belief she had to instill. She had to become one of the big fish.
Zhang Chi stood before the mirror, staring at her own reflection.
Young. Vital.
Strange.
She had no idea who she really was. She didn't look like a hybrid—neither the magazines nor the ones she'd seen in person had features like hers. She wasn't a modified human either. She didn't sense any implants or enhancements—and she could work in the mines.
Her body was strong, unnaturally so. She'd handled Blue Howl Ore day after day without even a hint of dizziness.
How did she end up in prison? No one had ever told her.
She was a red-tag, so she must have committed a serious crime.
But what kind of crime could land someone her age in a dump like this?
Who was she, really? Did she have family, friends? Did she belong to some organization?
She had no answers.
Only one truth remained:
This was her second chance.
And she wouldn't die here.
She would get out.