Chapter 4 The Rules of the Prison

The door was suddenly shoved open from the outside. A blinding white light flooded in, so bright that Sarah couldn't open her eyes.

The tattooed man reached out and pushed both of them by the shoulders, leading them into another sealed room.

The smell in the air changed instantly.

A sharp disinfectant odor hit her nostrils, making Sarah's eyes water. This was a simply furnished medical examination room.

Several men in white coats were already waiting there. The way they looked at Sarah and Claire was cold—like they were inspecting merchandise.

"Separate. Take off your clothes," one of the men ordered, his tone icy.

Sarah bit her dry, pale lips, her fingertips trembling as she slowly unbuttoned her old jacket.

She and Claire were led to opposite ends of the room. Height, weight, blood sample, heart rate—each test was carried out in turn.

When the light fell on Sarah's bare back, the examining doctor frowned slightly.

She was so thin, so frail it was almost pitiful.

But that wasn't the most noticeable thing.

Her spine, thighs, and arms were covered with bruises of all sizes—purple and blue. Some were fresh, some had faded to dark brown, and several scars of varying depths stood out clearly.

These were the marks of long-term violent abuse.

The doctor stared at the wounds, and his serious expression flickered. He stopped writing and pulled a red logbook from his white coat pocket.

"This person shows abnormalities. Physical and mental condition are extremely poor," he said coldly to his assistant. "Follow protocol. Report this. Send her back to her original residence."

Send back.

That word shattered the last bit of hope in Sarah's heart. She knew what it meant. If she was sent back to that town, back into Percy's hands, she wouldn't survive. She could already see him taking his belt with the metal buckle, torturing her for fun.

"No."

Sarah stepped forward before she could even put her outer clothes back on. She pressed her hand firmly over the doctor's pen.

"Sir, please," she gasped, scrambling for words. "We live in the poorest part of town. We barely get enough to eat. I've been doing physical labor for years. These bruises are from falling on gravel roads. There's nothing wrong with me. I can handle this job. Please keep me."

Her eyes were sunken, her expression timid and vulnerable—the look of a girl from the bottom. But beneath the fear was a stubborn resilience, a refusal to bow down.

The doctor narrowed his eyes, studying this thin, trembling girl who wouldn't let go of his hand. He glanced at Claire on the other side, equally nervous.

After a brief silence, he seemed unwilling to create extra trouble. He snorted and stuffed the red logbook back into his pocket.

"Put your clothes on," he said, dismissing the idea of sending her back.

When all the physical exams were finished, two staff members pushed a cart over and tossed two sets of dark uniforms in front of them.

The fabric was rough and thick, the style simple with no extra decoration. But the white numbers printed on the chest were eye-catching.

The uniform Claire picked up was marked with "50."

Sarah's uniform read "Special Recruit 51."

No one explained anything about the program. No pre-job counseling. No safety manual.

They just got uniforms, like objects being labeled.

Sarah clutched the clothes tightly, the unease in her heart growing stronger.

Before she could calm down, the tattooed man appeared again. He led them, now changed into uniforms, out of the medical room and into a black enclosed van parked at the back door.

The heavy door slammed shut. Then came the crisp click of the lock.

Sarah pressed her face to the window and looked out. The desolate scenery of the abandoned factory receded quickly.

From the moment the lock clicked, she understood completely. Getting into this van meant no turning back.

The vehicle left the industrial area and headed into unknown depths.

The light inside the van was dim, the atmosphere suffocating. The tattooed man in the front row didn't say a word. The silence was terrifying.

Claire couldn't take it anymore. She slid next to Sarah, lowered her voice, and leaned close to her ear.

"Sarah, don't you think all of this is strange?" She gripped her backpack strap tightly, her eyes full of doubt. "I'm number fifty. You're fifty-one. That means forty-nine girls should have reported before us."

Claire swallowed and continued, "But from the moment we arrived until we finished the physical exam, we haven't seen anyone else. Where did those forty-nine people go?"

"Were they sent somewhere else? Or did this program never actually recruit that many people?"

Listening to Claire's analysis, the unease in Sarah's heart grew. She had held onto a sliver of hope—that the psychological counseling would just be talking with prisoners across a table in a safe room.

That fantasy was fading fast.

She finally recognized that this was never a legitimate psychological assistance project. From start to finish, it was a trap.

"Everyone be quiet."

The tattooed man in the front spoke suddenly, cutting off their whispered conversation. He didn't turn around, just watched them coldly through the rearview mirror and laid out the rules.

"I'll only say this once, so listen carefully. You're about to enter Asteria's highest security maximum-security prison. There will be no pre-job training. No dedicated security personnel will be assigned to you."

His tone was icy, with undisguised cruelty.

"Your task is to be paired one-on-one with a prisoner. Starting today, you'll move into that prisoner's cell. You'll eat and live together. Through close companionship, you'll complete their psychological rehabilitation work."

"After three months, you'll collect your fifty thousand dollars. If anyone quits midway, you won't get a penny, and you'll be sent back to your original town immediately."

A chill swept through Sarah's entire body. Anger, absurdity, and a fear that nearly consumed her churned in her chest.

Eat and live together?

That meant sharing a cramped cell with murderers, gang members, criminals with blood on their hands. Twenty-four hours a day, no distance, no protection.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to bang on the window and announce she was quitting.

But could she really turn back?

If she quit, she'd go back to Percy—his endless drinking, his fists. Her dream of Silverpeak College would be shattered.

And she had dragged Claire into this. If she left, Claire would lose her chance too.

But if she stayed, she would face those brutal prisoners who could hurt her at any moment.

Trapped between two horrors, she fell into complete confusion.