A prisoner wearing iron clothes hit the cell bars with a baton in his hand.
The entire prison was dark and damp, the air filled with the stench of blood.
"Officer, no midnight snack tonight?"
"In this godforsaken place, we've already eaten all the damned rats!"
The inmates grumbled unhappily, followed by the sound of punching and kicking from within the cell.
A gaunt man was tied to a bed, his body twisted from the beating by four inmates; his face was unrecognizable.
"Prisoner 311, come out, go to solitary."
The prison officer glanced at the tormentor coldly, just happening to pass by.
Everything that happened in the cell had nothing to do with him—as long as these beasts didn't cause trouble for the prison or him. How they bit each other was none of his concern.
"Why, why do I have to go to that hellhole?!" The tormentor roared in protest, charging over and slamming into the bar, his head banging against it.
"I just don't like you today."
That was the reason. The prisoner sneered, and the nearby cells erupted in noise.
"All of you quiet down! Do you want to go to solitary too? Should I arrange for a psychiatrist?"
"Stop kidding, once you go there you never come back. Do you want that madman in solitary to dissect me?"
The tormentor looked at the prison officer with sweat on his face and fear in his eyes.
This solitary wasn't a place for repentance; everyone knew once you went in, you'd never come out. This prison officer clearly wanted him dead.
"What's that got to do with me? Now, I'm charging you with assaulting another inmate. Come to the door and go to solitary with me!"
The prison officer withdrew his baton and pulled out a stun baton, pressing it against the man.
"Bastard, is that all you've got?!" The assaulting inmate, instead of passing out from the shock, became even more enraged.
He reached out and grabbed the prison officer's throat, muscles in his arms bulging as if he wanted to snap his neck.
"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"
"Go to hell with me!"
The tormentor's eyes were bloodshot as he summoned all his strength, trying to break the neck of the prison officer before him.
"Heh, a beast is still a beast, truly an idiot to the core. Your charges have now increased by one—assaulting an officer. Time to accept your reformation."
The prison officer sneered, taking out the anesthesia gun from his waist, aimed at the inmate's neck, and pulled the trigger.
The tormentor's eyes bulged as he lost control of his body and collapsed to the ground.
"I specifically adjusted the dose—full body anesthesia, except your brain, of course. No talking either. Once you're in solitary, I'll arrange your bed and psychiatrist."
The prison officer squatted down, looking indifferently at the inmate on the ground.
Click-clack, click-clack, other sounds came from the cell, and a wave of hisses from the surrounding inmates—they were disappointed not to witness the prison officer get killed.
The inmate glanced inside the cell, where, apart from the abuser who was to be taken to the solitary confinement, there were three others: one on the bed, already tortured unconscious with much blood around, and his right arm missing, and then the other two squatted in the corner, doing who knows what.
Wait, where did the tortured prisoner's right arm go? The inmate remembered this guy had all his limbs intact, but it was only after half a month in this very cell that he ended up , a pity since he used to be quite strong, too bad he previously crossed paths with someone he shouldn't have.
"Where is his right hand?"
The inmate asked indifferently and pulled out a notebook and began to record.
The two inmates in the corner turned their heads, their hair in extreme disorder and greasy, with long locks concealing their faces, making it impossible to see their features.
"Ate it..." one replied in a declarative tone.
The inmate nodded and wrote it down, then asked, "The reason?"
"The prison doesn't serve supper."
"Hmm... I remember your numbers are 457 and 781, so the cannibals are you. Wouldn't it be just fine if vermin like you died?"
After speaking, the inmate took out his magnetic card and unlocked the cell door, then lifted up the guy lying on the floor.
"Beasts, keep it down, I'm about to be promoted soon, and if my evaluation suffers because of you, you'll all end up in solitary guy, the psychologist is always available."
After saying this, the inmate shut the cell door and carried the anesthetized prisoner towards solitary confinement.
There were inmates capable of confronting the guards, but definitely not in this area. Generally, the words of the guards held the most sway and could decide life or death, of course, only if the inmates had completely lost their value.
The solitary cells were located in the deepest part of the first floor of the prison, a total of twelve cells. They had lights but no windows, they had beds but they were operation beds, with one psychologist in charge of the place.
People placed there were ostensibly observed, and the psychologist would also 'treat' them, but not without performing some 'minor surgeries'.
The inmates here had no human rights, just deemed valuable or worthless. Those with value could continue living; the worthless were treated like garbage, with the guards able to decide their fate.
Every year, the mortality rate of guards to inmates was 1:10.
"Dr. Wood, I've brought you a new patient."
Dr. Wood was a middle-aged bald black man, dressed in a blood-stained surgical gown, his face perpetually maintaining a smile.
"I really appreciate it, Officer, just what I needed, a new lab rat," said Dr. Wood happily, looking at the prisoner on the floor with a perverse grin.
The inmate nodded, then left the solitary confinement room without expression.
"Another animal dead…" said the inmate, standing outside the door and lighting a cigarette.
The dim corridor was silent, the air filled with the smell of disinfectants and a stench of blood.
Dr. Wood took great pleasure in toying with the inmates' organs, especially the duodenum, which made the garbage bins here the smelliest.
The inmate's eyes widened; in the darkness, a flash of silver light passed by. Just when he thought it was an illusion, or a trick of the eyes, his vision began to blur.
"Cough cough!" The inmate spat out a mouthful of black blood, his legs gave way, and he knelt to the ground.
He desperately tried to lift his head, the face of a man with black hair came into his view, his lips moving as if he was saying something.
The inmate knew how to read lips and instantly made out the words the other man was saying.
"Sorry, but still, please go die."