Chapter 2

Daniel stared at the resume in his hands, his eyes locked onto that familiar line of letters—

Billy Kenneth Murphy.

That was his original body's father's name.

And the owner of this resume was none other than Warden Webster, sitting across from him right now, who had been "taking care of him" all this time.

The truth poured down like ice water from above. So all that mentoring and care was just the killer admiring his victim's orphan! A violent urge to kill surged in Daniel's chest, but he forcibly pushed it down to the deepest part of his eyes.

He raised his hand to press his temple, frowning. "Sorry, sir, sudden headache."

Webster put down his coffee cup, fake concern written all over his face: "You're overworked, Daniel. I suggest you go to Block One. It's safer there, and the work is easier. You need rest."

Daniel didn't answer right away. He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, stuck one in his mouth, and lit it with a "click."

Through the curling smoke, Webster's eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. In his memory, Daniel was a rule-following good guy who didn't smoke at all.

"No, Uncle Webster." Daniel exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, staring at him through the gray-blue haze. "I want to go to Block Three."

"Block Three?" The muscles on Webster's face twitched uncontrollably, his voice rising in disbelief. "That's where they keep serious criminals and drug lords! What do you want to go there for?"

"I like challenges." Daniel grinned, his cigarette-holding fingers not trembling one bit.

Webster looked at him deeply, his expression shifting unpredictably, before finally putting back on that kind mask: "I'll think about it. Go get some food first."

Walking out of the office, the smile vanished from Daniel's face instantly, replaced by extreme coldness.

On his retina, the system panel flashed a glaring string of numbers: [Target: Webster. Crime Points: 21000]

Twenty-one thousand points. A number high enough to get him killed if he acted now. Before he had enough strength, he had to lay low. And Block Three was the perfect stepping stone.

To others, Block Three was a death trap, but to Daniel, that was the real safe zone. Serious criminals were strictly controlled, guards were fully armed, standard equipped with HM-3 9mm submachine guns and Glock 17s. In this hellhole, caliber was truth, firepower was king.

More importantly, his cheat only gave points for arresting criminals, and arrests by subordinates counted too. He needed to go to Block Three to find a real "big leg" to latch onto, build up capital, and pave the way for future transfers.

……

Noon, guard cafeteria.

"Boss, this is for this month." Casare looked around, then stuffed a thick envelope into Daniel's drawer. "Five hundred pesos. Independence Day is coming up, so the people outside were generous and gave a bit extra."

Daniel weighed the envelope, a cold smirk playing at his lips.

In 1985 Mexico, the average police salary was only 189 dollars. And his base salary as a police sergeant was also five hundred pesos. This "monthly allowance" from gangs and drug dealers, converted, was worth over three hundred dollars.

Without money, you were worse than a dog in this prison.

"Crash!"

Just then, a harsh bang came from the prisoner dining area.

Daniel turned his head to look. A black man with dreadlocks kicked over a dining table, metal plates crashing to the floor, cheap mashed potatoes splattering everywhere.

"Is this shit fit for humans?!" The black man roared arrogantly, stomping his foot on the chest of the cowering food server nearby. "I want caviar! I want women!"

The surrounding prisoners instantly became like hyenas smelling blood, frantically banging on the iron bars and tables, chanting in unison: "Women! Women! Women!"

The entire cafeteria instantly teetered on the edge of chaos.

"That's Friedson Kullman, core member of the Millennium Group." Casare leaned close to Daniel's ear, lowering his voice and swallowing. "Boss, Millennium Group people are always aggressive. They've never paid any 'management fees.'"

"Didn't pay, and still dare to be this arrogant?"

Daniel cracked his neck, bones making teeth-grinding "crack crack" sounds. He pulled out the plastic baton from his waist and strode toward the center of the riot.

Friedson was still laughing wildly, completely unaware that death was approaching from behind.

"Bang!"

Without a word, Daniel swung the baton in a full arc, tearing through the air with fierce wind, and smashed it hard into the back of Friedson's head!

"Ahhh—!"

With a piercing scream, Friedson's massive body crashed to the ground, blood instantly staining his dreadlocks. Daniel didn't stop, his boot stomping hard on the man's back, the baton raining down like hail, each strike aimed at breaking bones!

"You're fucking dead!"

A roar came from the crowd. A muscular man with concentric circles tattooed on his head pushed through the crowd, charging at Daniel like an enraged bear, his fist already raised.

"Swoosh—"

Daniel spun around sharply, not even bothering to stand up. He drew his gun, chambered a round, and aimed forward, all in one fluid motion.

The cold barrel of the Glock 17, carrying the strong smell of gunpowder, was shoved directly into the man's open mouth, pressing against his throat.

The man's movement froze instantly.

But he was clearly a desperado, the murderous glint in his eyes only intensifying. He slowly raised his right hand, index and middle fingers together, arrogantly pointing at his own temple, his eyes full of challenge: Go ahead and shoot me if you dare.

"As you wish."

A flash of brutality crossed Daniel's eyes.

"Bang!"

The gunshot exploded in the enclosed cafeteria, deafening.

Complete silence.

The man let out an inhuman howl, clutching his head and falling to his knees. Blood gushed wildly through his fingers. Daniel's shot hadn't blown his head off, but grazed his left cheek, literally shooting off half his left ear!

The hot shell casing bounced to the edge of his riot boots. Daniel's eyes looked at him like a dead thing. He turned the gun barrel, pointing at the surrounding silent prisoners, his voice like a cold wind from hell: "Everyone, hands on your heads, squat down."

Rustle rustle—

The prisoners who had just been so agitated were scared out of their wits, instantly kneeling in a mass.

A few minutes later, the fully armed emergency response team rushed into the cafeteria.

The leader, Hagis Baird, looked at the blood and chaos everywhere, his face ashen. He quickly scanned the area and roared: "Throw the injured in the infirmary! That troublemaker Friedson goes in solitary! The rest of you, no food for three days!"

After arranging everything, Hagis strode up to Daniel, grinding his teeth and hissing: "Are you fucking crazy?! Do you know who that guy whose ear you shot off is? He's the cousin of the Dessaint Knights leader! His status is not something you can mess with!"

"Status?" Daniel pulled out a handkerchief, methodically wiping the blood splattered on his gun barrel, sneering. "Hagis, ever heard of Dealey Plaza?"

Hagis froze.

"President Kennedy had high enough status, right? At Dealey Plaza, someone went 'bang' and shot him, his brains splattered all over the car trunk just the same." Daniel slid the cleaned Glock back into its holster, making a gun shape with his right hand and placing it against Hagis's temple, gently wiggling it.

"No matter how high your status, before a bullet, all are equal."

Hagis's face instantly turned purple-red, veins bulging on his forehead, but he was forced by the beast-like oppressive aura emanating from Daniel to not dare move an inch.

……

In the corridor, echoes rang hollow.

Casare followed closely behind Daniel, his voice trembling: "Boss, you were too impulsive today! Hagis and his people will definitely retaliate!"

Daniel stopped, turned to look at his terrified subordinate, his lips curling into an inscrutable arc: "If I don't make things impossible to clean up, how can certain people make up their minds to kick me to Block Three?"

Casare froze, completely unable to understand the calculation behind those words.

Daniel patted his shoulder, his tone light as if he'd just gone for a stroll: "Don't worry, the doctor said my bone density is thicker than a bulletproof vest."

Meanwhile, in the warden's office.

"Bang!"

Hagis slammed his palm heavily on Webster's desk, making the teacups rattle.

"He fired a gun in the cafeteria! He's a complete lunatic!" Hagis's eyes were bloodshot, his emotions at their peak. "I even suspect he's possessed by a demon! This is nothing like the old Daniel!"

Webster sat in his leather chair, fingers interlaced, listening with a face like dark water.

Hagis suddenly leaned forward on the desk, his voice suppressing extreme venom and impatience:

"Don't forget, sir. My family gave you a full twenty thousand dollars! You promised you'd make him disappear completely. When exactly are you going to deliver on that promise?!"