He is a prisoner.
But beyond that, of course he has his own past - including what he did before he went to prison, which is clearly written in the file.
But all of this seems to be separated by a layer of gray mist, as if it is not real.
But these are not important.
All that matters is if he can grab a seat before breakfast time ends and finish the meal in peace - otherwise he'll be starving for the next 4 hours and rejoining the stomach war at lunchtime .
He took a few seconds to reflect on what he had done as he pulled the hidden knife from his cuff. If he had known that he might not even be able to eat after being imprisoned, he might not...
— No what
He froze for a moment, not remembering what he had done.
In just a few seconds, he was hit hard by someone.
"New here, you stole my things?"
He gripped the toothbrush-worn knife in his sleeve.
In the next second, a wooden stick was in front of his eyes. He lowered his head, saw that it was a mop, and subconsciously grabbed the wooden handle on it.
The prisoner, who had clenched his fists and was about to hit someone, had an ugly expression on his face, and gave him a vicious look, which contained a threat.
He doesn't care.
There seemed to be a force propelling him. He knew that he could cut a hole in the stomach of the original owner of the knife, but he might have to pay a price.
So he grabbed the handle of the mop and looked at the person who handed it over.
In a way, this man should have helped him, at least saved him from starving himself into a fight between prisoners - but the smoked sausage he gave himself was shaken off to the last short length Judging from this matter, he doesn't want to accept this kind of love anymore.
The other party looked up at him indifferently.
The meaning is obvious, take the dinner plate and roll.
He could only hold the plate with not much food in one hand, drag the mop with the other hand, and wandered around the cafeteria for a while.
The prisoner from whom he stole the knife led a few people to occupy a long table, staring at his direction.
So whenever he managed to find a vacant seat, someone would immediately squeeze in from the side to occupy the seat and let him roll to the side.
He seemed to understand that he had messed with someone he shouldn't have messed with right after he was imprisoned.
But that can't be helped.
Early this morning, he watched as the owner of the knife shoved another prisoner's head into the toilet while evading guards - and then when he turned to reach for the knife hidden under the bedding, it was gone up.
Apparently, he was now the new target of the knife owner.
He saw the muscular prisoner slit his throat from a distance, followed by another motion to push his head into the toilet.
He couldn't help laughing suddenly - for some reason, he always felt that the toilet was kind of friendly.
The other side seemed offended.
But someone said something in his ear, which made his expression change, as if there was a trace of panic hidden in his eyes.
"That 'new guy' looks familiar."
A shrewd-looking prisoner squeezed through the crowd, and whispered in the ear of the prisoner in the middle of the long table.
"What?"
The prisoner in the middle was menacing, so big that the plastic chairs in the cafeteria couldn't fit his entire ass.
The shrewd prisoner was a little embarrassed, so he could only lean into his ear and whisper a word.
The bulky prisoner gasped.
Meanwhile, breakfast time is over. The prisoners returned to the dormitory under the supervision of the prison guards, and he finally knew what the mop in his hand was for.
In this prison, holding a mop is freedom—and, of course, if the mop touches the ground often enough, you can earn yourself a few dollars and buy a bar of chocolate in the ridiculously expensive prison supermarket.
He finally had a chance to sit down and rubbed his sore wrists.
It was the mop that gave him the right to stay anywhere in the prison after breakfast was over—until he was quickly grabbed by guards with his arms cut behind his back and handcuffed.
He didn't know what happened, he only knew that he was still a little hungry.
For the next whole morning, he was taken to the parole room, listening to the parole lawyer and the parole officer muttering beside him, and then he was taken by the guards to receive a sealed bag containing his personal belongings, and was stripped naked again unexpectedly Prison uniform.
Only then did he realize that he seemed to be able to leave the prison.
All he had in his stuff bag was the suit he was wearing when he arrived. He watched the prison gate slowly closing in front of him, wondering if he was kicked out because he didn't even have a bank card to make pay phone calls in the prison—of course it was impossible, he was just joking.
But not funny.
Nor did he feel the gratitude and joy of being free.
Fortunately, he still remembered where his home was. It wasn't far, a half-hour walk—and he couldn't afford a taxi.
Several vans passed by, and he had no intention of hitchhiking.
As he got farther and farther away from the prison, the road gradually became deserted. The truck had already gone to nowhere—after a while, another hearse drove past him.
He looked at the hearse and thought for a while. If he is not walking by the side of the road in the suburbs for no reason now, maybe he is also the one lying in it now.
He smiled inexplicably again.
He walked straight down the road, and sparse trees gradually appeared on both sides of the desolate road, extending to both sides. It seemed to become much denser in the distance, and it could be called a forest.
He was stopped by people emerging from the woods.
The man appeared to be a tramp, with long gray hair matted in dirty tangles and clotted into greasy locks. From this point of view, he should have been here for a long time.
His eyes fell on the other, the homeless man in a dirty black suit that was clearly not his own. The front of the suit was covered with dark red, if he guessed correctly, it used to be blood.
"Root," said the bum, baring his yellow teeth, "leave your clothes and your money."
He took off his sport coat.
The tramp put on his coat as he wished, but his hands were tied from behind by the tie he found in the pocket of his suit, as did his ankles.
When the truck passes by tomorrow, you should see the homeless man tied up on the side of the road and call the police.
He picked up the black suit thrown away by the homeless man from the ground, shook it up, and put it on himself.
The suit is dirty and should be cleaned, he thought.
But by the time he realizes it, the suit is already on him — and even fits him.
He continued to walk down the road, and it didn't take long for him to see the neat street sign with a simple billboard saying Welcome to the Library of Untitled Town Middle School—very strange.
If there was a decent store in town to advertise, it wouldn't be the high school library's turn.
And this is his home.
It feels foreign, but it is.
He walked into the town.
There was no one on the street, he wandered casually, walked to the gate of the small courtyard where his nameplate was hung, and continued to walk there without looking sideways.
The weedy yard below made him stop for a moment.
He stared at the sign at the door, which bore a name—"Harrison Fergus." He thought for a while, but couldn't remember who it was, probably didn't know him.
He walked on.
The town was very small, and he quickly walked to the gate of the town government, where someone was standing on a ladder to change the announcement on the notice board.
He stood below for a while, and the person who changed the announcement didn't respond to him. He lowered his head and started the one that was thrown on the ground.
It's a notice from a new mayor, and it's today—but it's clearly out of date.
"What is this?" he asked.
After hearing this question, the person who posted the new announcement finally responded.
"Notice of the re-election of the mayor." The man replied flatly, "I just got the news that the new mayor elected today passed away yesterday."
He was a little speechless.
He picked up the notice that had been thrown on the floor, and the person on it said to him, "Excuse me, please help me throw it in the trash."
He looked at the person in the photo, and the black-haired young man in it was also looking at him with a gloomy expression.
A hand suddenly reached out from behind him, snatched the notice abruptly, made a "tear" movement, then stopped quickly, folded the paper a few times and put it into the pocket of his suit.
He turned his head to see a man with brown hair and brown eyes.
He remembered this man.
This is the guy who said "Welcome back to the prison" to him - it must have been hard to live to this age for him to be able to say things like that.
The man looked at him and looked him from head to toe, his lips seemed to tremble a little.
"Where did you get this...forget it."
He looked at the other person and said, "It was robbed—someone robbed me, so I robbed it."
The corner of the man's eyes twitched slightly, and his Adam's apple rolled.
Then he raised his right hand and punched him.
His reaction was quick, he took out a toothbrush and knife from his sleeve, and cut the opponent's wrist—but then, a soft handkerchief was pressed against his mouth and nose, and before he could struggle, it went limp fell to the ground.
What happened here was all seen by the person who was posting the notice. Without saying anything, he took out his mobile phone and started calling the police.
"Truncate." The man with brown hair and brown eyes said into the air.
"Communication cut off, sir," answered a voice in his earphones.
The person standing on the ladder and posting the notice is still persistently calling the police, looking as usual.
He was dragged up from under the armpit by the brown-haired man, and dragged for a long distance, the figures of both of them entered the small courtyard with his nameplate hanging on it.
"My God, Tony." A surprised voice came from inside, "How did you beat him like this?"
"The dust on my clothes has nothing to do with me," Stark said angrily. "Look carefully, Banner, it's obviously from a long time ago—hell, my memory tells me he wasn't wearing This dress left prison."
"It seems... indeed." The voice of another boy with a voice-changing period said, "Mr. Stark, are we... going to do it here?"
The author has something to say: there are many personal pronouns in this chapter, I wonder if it will be a bit confusing... But the warden can't really be called Zhang San!