Bai Chunian sat on the hard bed, his unbandaged right eye watching water drip down a moss-covered wall.
The island’s climate was unique—hot and humid year-round—and strange insects quietly crawled in the corners.
Eris was locked next door, constantly making noise to lure the guards, who would scold him before leaving, much to his delight. One day, a guard whose wrist Eris had grabbed choked on a fish bone at lunch and had to go to the infirmary.
Eris thrived on such mischief, and his solitary time kept being extended, yet he remained unchanged.
Bai Chunian sat quietly, letting a centipede, the thickness of a finger, crawl endlessly through his hands. During the sunless half-month in solitary, he repeatedly reviewed his actions in his mind, but in the ample spare time, he also allowed himself trivial thoughts.
For example, if an experimental subject with a lifespan far longer than humans were locked away here—one, two, ten, fifty years—with no one knowing they existed, no visits, no expectation of release, truly like a gun left idle after a war, permanently inactive in darkness—it was terrifying.
Bai Chunian rarely felt fear; perhaps the researchers had never accounted for it. But during this period, he genuinely felt a creeping anxiety from deep within.
Ever since Yan Yi had asked him, “Why didn’t you leave?” Bai Chunian had been pondering the reason. He could have walked away, played recklessly with Lan Bo, even joined the Reptile Organization to scheme against the world.
Perhaps it was youthful rebellion; he didn’t want to do what others expected—or what everyone else was doing. And only Lan Bo understood this.
Though that proud fish liked to command and threaten him, only Lan Bo unconditionally supported all his irrational decisions. He only wanted that.
The sound of polished shoes tapping down the empty hallway reached him, followed by the unlocking of a heavy door. The iron door swung open, flooding the space with bright light.
Du Mo, wearing a guard uniform, stood before him: “Time’s up. Come out.”
He saw Bai Chunian slouched on the bed, idly playing with insects. Prolonged wear of the suppressor had left his skin a wan, sickly pale, making his eyelids and lips look particularly red.
Despite appearing slightly fragile, this young alpha, once adjusted to the light, swept his gaze over Du Mo’s shoes, moving upward past his uniform pants and tie until their eyes met. He smiled faintly and greeted: “Good morning, officer. Looks like the warden still couldn’t get up on time. Planning to head to the precinct later?”
The casual greeting sent a chill down Du Mo’s spine.
Indeed, this morning he had driven to pick up the warden, who said he hadn’t slept well and couldn’t get up. Later, he would meet several officers sent by the international precinct.
Du Mo tried to maintain composure before the prisoner, though he knew full well how difficult Bai Chunian could be. Unwittingly, he had already ceded the psychological upper hand.
Bai Chunian tossed the centipede into the floor drain, stood, hands in pockets, and followed Du Mo out. Another guard was unlocking Eris’ cell; Eris hung from the bars, rattling them loudly.
“Cough… let’s go,” Du Mo said, holding Bai Chunian’s restrained wrists. They had worked together before, and there was no need to make the surface tense, even if he feared this dangerous individual.
Du Mo, an omega standing 1.75 meters, looked distinctly shorter beside the restrained white lion. Even with the suppressor, the faint pheromones spilling from Bai Chunian exerted species-level pressure on his crow glands.
Perhaps Bai Chunian had left too deep an impression during the ATWL exam, leaving Du Mo with a lingering PTSD-like fear. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Bai Chunian wanted to harm him.
“Officer, I won’t escape. No need to be so tense. I guarantee you’ll receive this year’s bonus safely,” Bai Chunian said pleasantly, lowering his gaze. “You don’t need a gun near me. It won’t help—and could be turned against you.”
Du Mo remained silent, suppressing the firearm tucked under his jacket, gritting his teeth. Knowing that Bai Chunian could act unpredictably yet never knowing exactly how was both infuriating and unnerving.
Under such circumstances, additional guards would definitely be required. Du Mo quickly formulated a new guard deployment plan: any movement by Bai Chunian, and snipers’ barrels would immediately aim for his head.
Bai Chunian, however, paid no attention. Basking in the long-missed sunlight, he felt relaxed and returned to the cell to share his first meal with his fellow inmates.
Today, the atmosphere among the inmates was unusually harmonious. Even the notoriously unruly troublemakers quietly enjoyed their lunch. It turned out today was Christmas Eve, and each prisoner had received a small piece of strawberry mousse cake at the food window—a rare treat in the drab monotony of prison life.
Bai Chunian had received one as well. Though he seldom ate sweets, after half a month of bland, watery meals, this was almost a delicacy.
Taking a bite, he detected a faint trace of pheromones—likely transferred while decorating the cake. Bai Chunian sniffed carefully and identified it: strawberry pheromones. Mixed with the strawberry jam, the scent was subtle, suggesting the pastry chef was a gentle little omega with sweet pheromones—and a charmingly skillful hand.
He glanced around. The Black Bear, still missing after their earlier encounter, had yet to return. The other cellmates occasionally cast glances his way, all cowed and useless for any real action.
After lunch, there was a twenty-minute rest period. The shrill ring of the old copper bell signaled everyone to rise, and the guards would assign their tasks.
Prisoners were never idle; each day came with a quota. Bai Chunian’s cell today was responsible for cutting and sewing fabric.
The guards lined them up and led them to the garment factory, with four heavily armored guards carrying shotguns positioned at the rear to ensure no one strayed.
As they walked, Bai Chunian kept an eye on the snipers stationed on high perches. There were far more than normal—an unmistakable sign that he was considered extremely dangerous. Any sudden move outside the line would instantly draw dozens of sniper rounds aimed at him.
Yet these weren’t extra reinforcements; the International Prison followed strict duty rotations. In the low-risk inmate zone, most prisoners didn’t require heavy oversight. Thus, almost all security resources were focused on him—hundreds of eyes tracking his every motion.
Bai Chunian smirked and entered the factory with the line.
The factory was old; many machines were rusted and worn, some electric equipment noisy. The work was assembly-line style: Bai Chunian’s task was to cut stacks of over a hundred pieces of cotton fabric into standard T-shirt shapes using an electrically driven vertical blade, then stitch the front and back together with a sewing machine.
The machine was large and simple to operate—push the stack along the pre-drawn lines, and the blade would do the work. It required some manual effort, and traces of the previous worker’s blood still lingered on the blade.
A fellow inmate mentioned that the finished shirts would be donated to disaster areas for children.
It was a new experience for Bai Chunian, but cutting was easy for him; his hands, trained for firearms, were steady. After a few tries, he handled it effortlessly. The sewing machine, however, was trickier.
An old-fashioned treadle machine required constant foot movement to drive the needle, while guiding the fabric by hand. Though researchers had equipped him with knowledge of advanced weaponry, no one had taught him decades-old production tools. Still, Bai Chunian was a quick learner. After some fiddling, he mastered it. The designs were simple, and he completed each shirt rapidly.
Before leaving, Du Mo had quietly instructed the guards to monitor Bai Chunian closely. The guards misunderstood, assuming he had offended a major figure and required “special attention.” Thus, Bai Chunian was made to double the quota—while others finished a hundred pieces and rested, he had to make two hundred.
As the day drew to a close, a guard checked his output. Bai Chunian’s workstation was buried under finished shirts. He had not only completed the two hundred pieces but had embroidered cute fish-shaped cross-stitches and even stitched a Disney-style Cinderella dress from the leftover scraps. Beside him lay a worn, corner-folded book titled Learn Garment Drafting in Three Minutes, which he used for reference.
Bai Chunian was thoroughly enjoying himself, already beginning to estimate Lan Bo’s measurements.
The guard had intended to find an excuse to penalize him, but seeing his diligence, he begrudgingly spared him.
At evening changeover, a new batch of inmates came in. Bai Chunian caught sight of an omega brushing past him. Looking closely, he recognized him.
“So he’s in the low-risk zone too,” Bai Chunian thought.
He wore the number 324 on his chest. Slightly small in stature, his loose work pants trailed a curled chameleon tail. He kept his head down, silently enclosed in his own small world, impervious to the outside.
The eyes of the “Silent Stalker” were covered with black electrostatic tape. Bai Chunian waved his hand before the eyes, confirming he could see nothing, and immediately understood why.
The Silent Stalker’s innate ability was mimicry. Even with the suppressor, this inherent skill would remain. To be safe, he couldn’t see anything.
Yet even blindfolded, he might struggle with his work, and failure meant punishment—no exceptions.
As the Silent Stalker passed Bai Chunian, his body paused slightly. He had clearly noticed the familiar pheromone scent lingering on Bai Chunian. His fingertips stiffened.
Bai Chunian subtly leaned close to whisper in his ear:
“Some time ago, I met Major Xia of the PBB Storm Unit in M Port. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Want to hear some updates?”
The Silent Stalker slowly raised his head, reacting to Bai Chunian’s words. Even through the black tape sealing his eyes, a thin layer of moisture formed.