Bai Chunian couldn’t resist reaching out for the two small red booklets, but his fingertips slammed against the glass with a dull thud.
“Hold it closer so I can see…” he stretched his neck, pressing his nose against the glass. From Lan Bo’s side, it looked a little comical.
Lan Bo held up both booklets, tilting them left to right and back again, while Bai Chunian mirrored the movement on the other side of the glass, following every motion.
“Don’t move, open it up,” Bai Chunian urged anxiously, sitting behind the glass. With Du Mo watching, he couldn’t stand up.
Lan Bo flipped to the first page: a photo with a steel stamp beneath, the red double happiness symbol at the bottom. They hadn’t taken an official photo together, but the tech department had managed to make it look proper.
He then showed Bai Chunian the second page, listing their names.
“It’s so beautiful,” Bai Chunian said, running his fingers along the paper through the glass.
Seeing him like this, Lan Bo felt a twinge of tenderness. His webbed hands pressed to the glass. “A few days ago I heard you thinking of me, Ziwei—it must have been hard for you. I heard your breathing that night, and I was there with you too. Can you feel it? I could smash this glass with a single punch. Do you want to come with me?”
“Stop,” Bai Chunian muttered, shoving his handcuffed hands into his hair, trying to suppress what was rising inside him.
He didn’t bother hiding it; every word was audible to the guards. At the door, the armed officers had their weapons ready, while Du Mo watched them closely.
Bai Chunian noticed a white tail poking out of his waistband, wagging behind him—it was not a dog’s tail. He recalled the registry: the species was White Lion.
Du Mo rolled his eyes, silently cursing.
Bai Chunian focused on talking with Lan Bo, slipping a hand behind himself to tuck away the accidental display of his alpha traits, pretending nothing had happened. With the table in the way, Lan Bo couldn’t see, so there was no embarrassment.
Clearly, the two of them didn’t consider Du Mo human.
Du Mo leaned against the wall, bored, acting as a silent third wheel, secretly typing into the four-person intercom chat: “I give up. If I were guilty, the warden could punish me—but instead I have to serve this alpha behind the glass, wagging his tail and tilting his ears, while they casually throw forbidden words around.”
Mo Chan: “Still that Bai guy? How much longer does he have to stay? IOA isn’t posting bail for him?”
Bellbird: “Even my Eris is a headache. Just walking past his cell trips me up. Because of him, my husband didn’t get a car registration—so annoying.”
Sea Spider: “Someone came to visit Eris today too.”
After half an hour, Bai Chunian reluctantly watched Lan Bo leave.
Du Mo stepped onto the stool, lazily extending and retracting his telescopic baton. “He didn’t bail you out? I thought you’d be gone by now.”
The international prison had a bail system for experimentals only. Qualified organizations could present purchase receipts and ownership certificates, pay a large bail sum, and remove an experimental from prison supervision. Since experimentals were legally considered “weapons” rather than free individuals, their holding organization would be liable for any future harm.
“I have a direct relative now,” Bai Chunian said, humming a tune as he left the visitation room.
Du Mo had no choice but to follow. As long as Bai Chunian remained in prison, he couldn’t be let off-guard; he was a ticking time bomb.
Exiting the visitation room, they ran into Eris being escorted by several officers. Despite the guards, Eris was visibly ecstatic. Seeing Bai Chunian, he shouted, “Big brother! I’ve got a visitor too! They’re bailing me out! I’m so happy! Sorry, big brother, I didn’t mean to leave you—but they’re the one I like more.”
“Oh, congratulations,” Bai Chunian said, giving him a thumbs-up. “I just got married myself.”
“Wow!” Eris pointed at him with both hands. “You’re so cool!”
They did a high-five across the glass, making Du Mo cringe.
He jabbed Bai Chunian with his baton from behind. “Stop dawdling, move along.”
On the way back, Bai Chunian casually asked, “Who’s bailing out Eris?”
Du Mo shook his head. “Not my responsibility.”
Back in his cell, Bai Chunian wandered around for a while, letting the joy of the day settle before he risked running up to anyone with wedding news.
After leaving the international prison, Lan Bo took a ferry, but once on the boat, he jumped into the sea and swam away.
Lu Yan and the others waited three kilometers off the island in a helicopter.
The chopper hovered above the ocean, surveying the deep blue waters. A mermaid with a shimmering, vibrant blue tail surfaced, followed by floating blue bioluminescent jellyfish.
Lan Bo leapt from the water, grabbing the hand extended by Xiao Xun on the ladder. Once their wrists locked, the helicopter lifted them away from the island.
Onboard, Bi Lanxing handed Lan Bo a dry towel for his dripping hair. Han Xingqian asked, “How is it?”
“He tapped out a Morse code sequence for me,” Lan Bo said, carefully checking the waterproofed file bag, then reading each letter aloud. Han Xingqian wrote them down in order.
It spelled out a long phrase: “One-way privacy film.”
Lu Yan: “One-way privacy film? Like for car windows?”
Bi Lanxing: “Probably custom-made. One side must be completely opaque.”
Han Xingqian tapped on the paper. “We can make it.”
Lan Bo spread out the hand-drawn prison floor plan that Bai Chunian had made before leaving, pointing to a flowerbed marked with the number “2.” “Three days from now, the handoff will be here. Still using Lanxing’s vines—I’ll escort him.”
The hand-drawn map had over a dozen numbered marks, all analyzed by Bai Chunian before he left. They indicated potential spots for passing items. Some locations had been ruled out after on-site inspection, leaving only a few viable positions.
A week later.
Bai Chunian stood at the cafeteria window getting his meal. The person serving still wasn’t the pastry chef. He leaned forward to look inside. “Bee hasn’t returned yet?”
The inmate serving food replied impatiently, “He’s been transferred to the infirmary to prepare patient meals. Won’t be back for a while.”
Back at his table, staring at the unusually bland boiled cabbage, Bai Chunian felt his appetite wane. The cafeteria had sparked unrest over the past week as meals had consistently worsened. Inmates banged on tables in protest, demanding the Bee Omega return to cooking.
Hearing the commotion, Du Mo kicked the door open and cracked his whip against it several times. The sharp snaps immediately silenced the noise. He barked, “Who’s causing trouble?”
The cafeteria fell silent, order restored.
Du Mo leaned against the wall near the sink, watching over the inmates as they ate. Everyone kept quiet—no one dared test him, knowing his whip could cause real pain.
Bai Chunian carried his tray to the sink, letting the fine stream of water wash over his defined hands.
Du Mo’s gaze remained fixed on him. He had grown used to monitoring Bai Chunian constantly, seizing any chance to catch even the smallest slip.
Bai Chunian knew he was being watched but didn’t lift his head. “Since you’re curious about the SOW firewall, I happen to know a bit. In exchange, I want to hear about your previous interrogations with Jin Luerong. If you agree, I’ll share what I know next time you interrogate him.”
Du Mo understood immediately. Bai Chunian was here to negotiate. In front of the former IOA field operations chief, no interrogation tactic could pry anything from him. With someone like him, honesty was more profitable than hiding things.
“Jin Luerong resists questioning. Every time he goes in, he just sits there, silent,” Du Mo shrugged. “No one can make him speak.”
“Oh? Then he must have said other things too,” Bai Chunian said, casually locking eyes with him. “Like, ‘I only talk to the IOA chairperson,’ or something similar, right?”
Du Mo’s suspicion spiked. “Why are you here? If you’re just undercover, why didn’t IOA send an anonymous agent to cover your identity?”
Bai Chunian curved his lips. “Guess.”
“You’re just a distraction. IOA’s real target is outside!”
“Oh… of course not. You sound like a detective in a crime show revealing the culprit,” Bai Chunian replied, washing dishes as he spoke. “You shouldn’t spend so much energy watching me. I’m actually the least in need of supervision.”
Du Mo sneered. “Smooth talk. Then tell me—who needs supervision more?”
“Of course, Jin Luerong.”
Du Mo lowered his arms. “Why?”
Bai Chunian calmly wiped a plate with a cloth. “You tell me—what am I here for?”
Du Mo: “Undercover? Espionage? Serving IOA, anyway. I just don’t have evidence yet. If you were just arrested for disturbing order, IOA might still bail you out. But if you investigate illegally inside prison and I find evidence, you won’t leave here again.”
Bai Chunian smiled. “That’s your claim, not mine. Cannot be used as a confession. If you think I can do this, Red Throat can too—maybe even more professionally, with longer infiltration, because they specialize in prison hits.”
Du Mo’s face darkened. “What are you implying?”
“The value of Jin Luerong’s testimony is mutual. If he dies, his secrets die with him. No one benefits.” Bai Chunian sighed lightly. “Is he still in the medical ward? I can see your competence—getting to your position at this age isn’t easy. Out of experience or instinct, you protect him, which is good. But your understanding isn’t complete, and you haven’t considered the full logic inside.”
Du Mo pressed his lips, watching him. Bai Chunian finished washing, wiped his hands. “Don’t understand? Field agents are born with danger instincts. That’s why you’ve always been a guard, little sparrow.”
“If Red Throat’s assassins can hit him once, they can do it again. How about hiring me as a bodyguard? Assign me to Jin Luerong—I guarantee he stays safe.”
Du Mo grasped the seriousness, politely refusing, and strode out of the cafeteria, speaking into his radio: “Conduct a surprise search of all maximum-security cells. Check for contraband. Focus on former Red Throat members immediately.”
The guards in the high-security block received the order and began thorough inspections. Suspected contraband was piled in the yard and checked item by item. The workload was enormous, and by evening, a third of it remained unchecked, forcing overnight work. Meanwhile, most armed guards and snipers were redeployed around the high-security and special custody blocks.
At midnight, the other inmates slept, snoring. Bai Chunian sat on his bunk, passing time by fidgeting with his fingers.
Hearing the fingerprint lock click, he quietly slipped out, moving catlike and silent.
He opened the door a crack, pressed to the wall, climbed onto the windowsill, and followed the ceiling ventilation duct up to the rooftop.
The prison block rooftop was about sixteen stories above the ground. The exterior had no air-conditioning units or security grills to step on—only the window ledges of each cell, double-glass windows fitted with iron bars, and a narrow strip outside.
Using the stairs would trigger surveillance cameras and alert the control room. This rooftop was the only feasible route.
Bai Chunian stood at the edge with his hands in his pockets, peering down at the concrete nearly a hundred meters below. As the searchlight swept near him, he leapt lightly.
To prevent escapes, the two prison blocks were far apart, with no trees or walls to hide behind. Even with a suppressor and his inherent jumping and climbing abilities, he couldn’t survive a direct hundred-meter drop without intermediate points to absorb the fall.
His first leap landed on the narrow ledge three floors from the bottom. Instead of jumping further, he relaxed his legs, letting his body slide down while hooking his hands onto the next ledge.
This maneuver demanded immense arm strength and endurance. Without glandular energy, every motion relied solely on trained technique and exceptional physical fitness.
Step by step, he descended, weaving between dense searchlights. It took ten minutes to reach the ground.
In a dark corner, an Omega in a guard’s uniform suddenly grabbed his arm.
The uniform was ill-fitting, the low brim of the hat hiding his face. Bai Chunian leaned down to look. It was the Silent Mimic, his large eyes flickering.
“Use it up, then get rid of it,” the Silent Mimic said, handing him the discarded tape.
Four days earlier, Bai Chunian had retrieved a roll of specialized one-way film from the flowerbed, delivered by Bi Lanxing via vines. This film was far more expensive than ordinary car window film. From the outside, it looked like solid black tape, yet even ten layers thick, one could clearly see through from inside.
Bai Chunian smuggled the film into the prison’s clothing workshop and hung it on the thread spool needle of an old sewing machine. When the Silent Mimic’s shift brought him to the workshop, he swapped his electrostatic eye tape with the one-way film.
The Silent Mimic’s inherent ability was mimicry. As long as he could see a guard’s fingers and eyes, he could replicate their fingerprints and irises. He copied his own guard fingerprints and iris to open his cell’s fingerprint lock, then used a different guard’s prints to help Bai Chunian unlock doors.
This ability couldn’t be disabled by suppressors. Du Mo, unaware of the Silent Mimic’s exact powers, had covered his eyes out of instinct. He hadn’t anticipated anyone supplying specialized equipment—proof that even the most careful plans could have gaps.
The Silent Mimic lowered his hat again, leading Bai Chunian, unlocking each door with the replicated fingerprints and gently closing them behind.
Bai Chunian followed, watching the small figure move quickly with tiny steps.
“Thank you for taking the risk for me,” Bai Chunian said.
The Silent Mimic shook his head. “You promised to tell me how the Major is. Is he alright? Has he been injured again?”
“I saw him during a mission in M Harbor. He’s fine. His old injuries seem mostly healed.”
“Did he meet with the IOA chairperson?”
“Yes, just a brief catch-up. He’s still single. His brother said he doesn’t want a partner. Do you like him? Should I pass the message for you? I think I have some say in this.”
“No… don’t,” the Silent Mimic swallowed hard, choking back his voice. “If he gets hurt, and the people responsible are in this prison, tell me. I’ll kill them for him. Other than that, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Do you know that experimental subjects have a bail system?”
“Yes. But I was destroyed by the institute. No receipt, no proof. The Major comforted me, saying if I worked well, I could get out. I knew he was reassuring me, not wanting my remaining life to be hopeless. But I also knew I’d be imprisoned forever, never leaving alive.” His eyes reflected helplessness. “If you can get out, and an experimental subject tries to hurt him, protect him once for me—that will be my reward.”
“Alright.”
Bai Chunian had no need to offer extra comfort. Compared to others resigned to harsh reality, he was already fortunate.
The Silent Mimic led him to the medical block where Jin Luerong was held, unlocking all doors using his mimicked fingerprints and irises.
Once Jin Luerong’s room door opened, the Silent Mimic lowered his hat, said goodbye, and hurried back to his block.
The ward corridor lights were on, and a desk lamp illuminated the room.
Jin Luerong lay on his side facing the wall, unable to sleep, scratching his nails into the plaster. The wall was pockmarked with the repeated word “Brother.”
Doctors diagnosed him with stereotypic movement disorder. Whatever object he had, over time he would unconsciously use it to write “Brother” all over.
A hand gently rested on his shoulder. Jin Luerong didn’t flinch, still staring at the densely marked wall.
“Come hide with me. There might be an attempt on you tonight,” Bai Chunian said, helping him sit up.
By experience, Du Mo’s large-scale inspection would likely catch contraband, temporarily halting Red Throat’s assassination plan. But if nothing was found, it could tip off the enemy, and desperate inmates might act prematurely.
Jin Luerong’s hair was disheveled. Half-open eyes glimmered with a spider-like metallic sheen. His delicate, soft features belied his age—although reports stated he was twenty-three, he still looked seventeen. After the experimental modifications, his appearance had ceased aging.
His severed leg artery had long since been sutured and healed, but walking was still awkward. Seeing Jin Luerong’s disheveled state, Bai Chunian glanced at the time, then scooped him up, half-dragging and half-carrying him into a narrow janitor’s closet tucked near a corner.
At first, Jin Luerong resisted, but Bai Chunian’s faint alpha scent calmed him. Helplessly, he rested his head on Bai Chunian’s shoulder, croaking, “Brother…”
Bai Chunian locked the closet door. The dim ceiling light illuminated the cramped space between buckets and mops.
“I know about your brother. Shao Wenjing, the one you wrapped like a mummy, is now lying in the IOA Medical Association. No heartbeat or breath, but he hasn’t decayed…” Bai Chunian cupped Jin Luerong’s face and patted it lightly to bring him back to focus. “Listen to me. Tell me what you’ve gone through. I can save you.”
Jin Luerong turned his head stubbornly. “I only speak with the IOA chairperson.”
“…He really won’t budge. No wonder, after enduring all the experiments since birth, it’s impossible to get used to that kind of torment—especially for a human teenager.”
“Alright, then. Tell me where your receipt is, who bought you. If you have a receipt, the chairperson can take you away.” Bai Chunian tried to coax him indirectly.
“Rucheng… Ruruo Fangcheng,” Jin Luerong muttered. “Rucheng bought us. The receipt is with Ruruo’s boss.”
“Rucheng?” Bai Chunian recalled the contact who handled the sunflower explosive catalyst handoff in M Harbor—Rucheng, whose father was head of the Ruruo Fangcheng Group.
No wonder Jin Luerong killed Rucheng with a silk cocoon before leaving—there was this layer of hatred too.
“Good, you’re being obedient. You’ll be fine. Your brother will be fine too.” Bai Chunian knew he couldn’t push too hard. It was already significant that Jin Luerong spoke at all. He planned to continue gently questioning, confident that as long as he returned to the prison block before dawn, Jin Luerong would likely be safe. After tonight, Du Mo would increase vigilance and fortify this area.
Just as he opened his mouth, a piercing scream echoed from the corridor, followed by an alarm. Bai Chunian shuddered, peeking through the closet door. The door of Jin Luerong’s ward stood wide open, and a shadow darted out through the broken window.
The dessert chef, who had gone to swap mosquito-repellent tablets, lay convulsing on the floor, a syringe plunged into his neck, most of the pink solution already injected.