Because it was Christmas Eve, everyone received a small dessert with dinner. Only on these two days each year could prisoners enjoy a little treat.
The dessert carried the same pheromone scent as at lunch—a faint hint of strawberry.
Bai Chunian grew curious about its maker. Holding his tray, he leaned toward the food window and said, “I’d like an extra piece of strawberry cake.”
The food window was barred with dense iron grating. Inside, prisoners were tasked with cooking and serving the meals.
Bai Chunian bent down to peer inside. A round-faced Omega returned his gaze in the same posture. Wearing a white pastry chef’s hat, sanitary arm sleeves, and a white apron, the Omega’s cheeks were flushed, his appearance neat and soft. His eyes were unusual—dark red, pupil-less, composed entirely of a delicate hexagonal pattern, like insect compound eyes.
On his chest hung the prisoner number “S-218.” Experimental subjects were marked with an “S” for “special.” The 2 indicated an insect-type gland, 1 represented 10% mimicry (eyes), and 8 signified contagious-disease abilities.
That someone with contagious-disease capabilities could work in the kitchen meant the ability was either suppressed by a regulator or inherently non-infectious.
Bai Chunian recalled that at Shaojin Mansion during afternoon tea, a reptile-type operative had mentioned one of their members had surrendered under pressure, held in an international prison—a bee Omega, S-218, the “Pastry Chef.”
The Pastry Chef noticed Bai Chunian’s chest number, “S-9100,” and blinked in surprise. Secretively, he slid a piece of strawberry cake onto Bai Chunian’s tray, holding a finger to his lips with a shush: “Just this one piece for you. No more this year.”
“Thank you,” Bai Chunian said.
His voice was sweet, carrying a clean strawberry scent. Sadly, most experimental subjects did not trust IOA; if the Pastry Chef surrendered, the Director would surely take him in.
Bai Chunian returned to his seat, staring at the cake. Felines were naturally insensitive to sweetness; he didn’t particularly like desserts. One piece was fine—two would be excessive.
But barely minutes after leaving the window, guards caught the bee Omega. Meals were strictly rationed, and giving extra was a violation.
A guard struck his hand with a thin rod, also deducting a point from the Omega’s name on the roster.
The little Omega squatted in the corner, tears glistening, clutching his hand. The electric rod had left a burning red mark.
In reality, all experimental subjects were injected with combat data, but their personalities inevitably produced weaklings. Some were so feeble they were incinerated; slightly stronger ones became targets or food for more advanced subjects.
For a personality like the Pastry Chef’s, survival in the facility was already rare. Even without escape attempts, he would eventually be devoured by other maturing subjects. Surrendering to IOA was precisely the sort of act he might attempt.
Bai Chunian watched from a distance, expressionless, and devoured his cake in a few bites. Then he used the soft plastic fork provided to scratch at the hem of his clothing.
Prison utensils were strictly regulated to prevent harm. This cheap plastic fork was soft; he had to press the tip firmly against the skin to cut it.
After meals, prisoners were returned to their cells. Passing the food window, Bai Chunian tossed a tiny, fingernail-sized capsule to the Pastry Chef in the corner.
The Pastry Chef’s eyes welled with tears as he took it. Bai Chunian, avoiding the guard’s gaze, made a rubbing gesture in a blind spot of the surveillance cameras.
The Pastry Chef clutched the capsule, looked around, then squeezed it in his palm. The liquid inside dissolved the capsule shell and seeped into the bloodied hand.
The wound healed rapidly, soon disappearing.
“It’s medicine… how did he get this in…?”
Back in his cell, Bai Chunian climbed onto his bunk, positioned in a high corner, hidden from view.
He pressed his fingertips against his lower abdomen, where he had just made a shallow cut with the fork. About two finger-widths to the left, he pressed firmly again.
Nothing was perceptible, yet he felt a subtle crack, as though a container inside had burst, and the medicine flowed into his body.
As it was absorbed, his gunshot-damaged left eye rapidly regained much of its function.
Han Xingqian had prepared a subdermal, invisible healing agent, pre-positioned inside him. The liquid contained regenerative gland pheromones, instantly accelerating wound recovery.
The capsule had been designed for human operatives: its shell dissolved without a trace, the medication could be tailored to need, and scanners could not detect it. A normal human could safely take two.
Regenerative compounds were not rare in the Alliance Medical Association, but Bai Chunian had held off using them, saving the left eye for slow treatment in prison.
He looked at the calendar, silently calculating the passage of time.
Three days later, before dawn, he washed his face at the sink. The cell door opened; a guard knocked heavily on the iron door: “S-9100, come out.”
Even after nearly four years out of the facility, Bai Chunian still reacted to his number. He raised his head, wiped his face, tidied his wash items, and followed the guard.
Du Mo waited outside, a chain of handcuffs dangling from his fingers.
Bai Chunian held out his hands, letting him cuff him. Du Mo stayed highly alert, and Bai Chunian, like a frightened little bird, cast his eyes downward, then curved his lips and softly asked, “Finally my turn? The police station’s interrogation is slow, held up by transport and security procedures? No need to use so much effort—I wouldn’t escape.”
Du Mo frowned, tightening the handcuffs.
In the past few days, he had deployed snipers and guards to watch Bai Chunian, preventing him from finding any opportunity to tamper or escape. But Bai Chunian was maddeningly obedient—he left no gaps. Days passed, and Du Mo found nothing. Meanwhile, Bai Chunian seemed able to anticipate every move he planned, as if he were monitoring the entire prison.
Du Mo suddenly noticed a faint stain under the hem of Bai Chunian’s clothing. He grabbed the fabric and inspected it closely—it looked like a trace of blood that had been washed but left a light mark.
He raised his eyes to Bai Chunian. “What’s this?”
“Blood,” Bai Chunian replied, shrugging.
“….” Du Mo lifted the hem, revealing Bai Chunian’s taut, well-toned abdomen. A faint scar, almost invisible, ran across it.
Du Mo pressed on the scar, feeling for any foreign object, then looked up. “Explain.”
“A scar, officer,” Bai Chunian said with a smile.
“You’re hiding something,” Du Mo said, staring at him intently.
“Not at all,” Bai Chunian lifted his cuffed hands. “If you like, feel free to search every inch.”
“Take him for a medical inspection immediately!” Du Mo ground his teeth. His hand gripping Bai Chunian’s arm was damp with sweat. After reviewing every motion of Bai Chunian on the surveillance footage, he was convinced there was something hidden on him—perhaps a microchip to receive external signals, or a signal jammer to evade monitoring.
“Search him thoroughly. Not a single inch of skin can be overlooked,” Du Mo said. “Especially that new scar.”
Doctors followed protocol: X-rays, then, at Du Mo’s insistence, a surgical incision along the scar. The result: nothing. They had to stitch it back up.
Du Mo held the inspection report in disbelief.
Before he could react further, Bai Chunian appeared silently beside him. “You knew I would do something, yet couldn’t find proof. You’re thinking about me day and night, too immersed—you can see I’ve already started going bald.”
Du Mo slapped the report onto Bai Chunian. “You’d better be careful. If I find evidence, it will be made public immediately, and you will be executed. Don’t think IOA can save you. If you hadn’t come, we could’ve turned a blind eye, but now that you’re here, not even the Sirens can sway our judgment. The international prison has its limits—it won’t bow to any threats.”
“I’ll be careful, officer,” Bai Chunian replied.
The tropical island was lush with vegetation. On patches of soil not covered by cement, thick vines and wildflowers grew. Bai Chunian plucked a fiery red flower from a black vine, inhaled its scent, and offered it to Du Mo. “If I were you, I wouldn’t focus all my attention on just me.”
Du Mo brushed the flower away. “Get in the car.”
Bai Chunian was escorted into a vehicle by armed police. At that moment, prisoners from Block B were being taken out to clear weeds. Among them was the Silent Shadow operative.
He had his eyes covered. Passing Bai Chunian, the latter coughed lightly to draw his attention. The operative sniffed the air, confirming Bai Chunian’s position.
About four or five hundred meters out of Block B, the Silent Shadow raised his hand calmly. “I have intelligence I wish to confess to the police.”
The guards took notice and used a radio to call armed personnel. They escorted the Silent Shadow away.
All were loaded onto separate armored vehicles and removed from the prison grounds.
Several kilometers off the island in international waters, a helicopter hovered.
Lu Yan’s piloting skills were masterful; the aircraft hovered perfectly without wobble. Han Xingqian sat inside, white horns extending from his forehead, M2 pheromones from the Bird-of-Paradise gland seeping into the air.
The M2 differentiation ability of the Pegasus gland, “Eye of the Wind,” was a rare mutation-derived talent. It created a calm vortex at the center of a cyclone, impervious to harsh weather. Signals could not be interfered with, missiles could not track it, and radar could not detect it—though it only worked on inanimate objects.
Han applied the Eye of the Wind to the helicopter; no matter how close they got to the island, detection was impossible.
Xiao Xun raised a telescope, peering at the prison island. “He got it,” he said faintly.
Within the telescope’s view floated several blue-glowing jellyfish near the island’s edge.
Beneath the surface, Lan Bo maneuvered Bilangxing, clad in a diving suit with oxygen tanks.
His dive and ascent speeds were extreme; he had to constantly release bubbles to adjust the water pressure on Bilangxing’s body, or he would be injured even in the suit.
Intertwined vines grew from the island’s edge toward the inspection room Bai Chunian had marked on the map. Mixed with tropical plants, they bore bright red flowers, each with a tiny chip nestled in the stamen. A single breath would deposit the chip onto one’s nasal cavity.
Lan Bo steadied Bilangxing along a vine. Passing a bud, he asked, “You wrote on the flower that I miss Randi. The one he sniffed—I kissed it myself.”
Bilangxing frowned and smiled. “Not enough space for all that. My vines can mimic surrounding plants; the flowers near Chu-ge are small.”
“Ang…” Lan Bo slumped his fin-like ears, disappointed. He had extended them only to hear Randi’s voice through the vine.