Chapter 3

On a sweltering afternoon, the asphalt road reflected the blazing sunlight, as if it were emitting suffocating waves of heat.

Neighborhood workers had once again arrived at Caleb's neighbor's doorstep, grumbling about the scattered shards of glass and the black ink stains on the walls.

Caleb had just gotten home from work and emerged from his garage.

Upon seeing him, the two neighborhood workers approached and asked, "Mr. Johnson, do you know when Mr. Zephyr will be home?"

Caleb politely shook his head, indicating that he wasn't sure.

In this clean and orderly neighborhood, all residents took pride in maintaining the environment. People regularly trimmed their lawns and kept their gardens pristine. Even the public roads outside the yards were occasionally washed down.

Yet, amidst this harmonious environment, one house stood out in disarray. Glass shards littered the ground, and ink stains on the walls went unaddressed. It was an eyesore, starkly contrasting with the otherwise well-kept surroundings.

The neighborhood workers came by almost every day, but had never encountered Caleb's elusive neighbor.

Caleb couldn't quite recall when exactly his neighbor had last been seen. It might have been two days ago, or three—it was unclear. Since the incident the other night, the man had only returned once.

Perhaps he had moved to a relative's or friend's house, thinking the area was no longer safe.

Caleb didn't find it strange. However, the absence of his usual spying target left him feeling a bit bored and out of sorts. On the bright side, the reason he had moved to this neighborhood was to curb his voyeuristic habit. With his only spying subject gone, he had no choice but to control his gaze.

Outside the iron gate of his house were three packages. Caleb carried them inside and used a small knife to open them. They contained three items he had recently ordered online or sent for repair.

The first was a bottle of ink. Caleb practiced calligraphy, so ink was a necessary staple for him.

The second was a bottle of cologne. Though not essential, he used it a few times a year. Also, having a bottle at home was convenient for occasional use.

He had ordered a new bottle of the same cologne he threw the other night. Caleb and his ex-boyfriend had parted on good terms with no emotional entanglements. He had been using this particular cologne for quite some time, and there was no need to replace it with a new scent.

The last item was the old-fashioned mechanical watch that Caleb had damaged. Despite its outdated style, the manufacturer honored its lifetime warranty.

According to prison regulations, staff were not allowed to bring phones into the facility. Caleb had grown accustomed to using his old watch to tell time. In the days without it, he had repeatedly found himself glancing at his empty wrist out of habit.

Caleb had restored his missing and broken items. Meanwhile, the shards of glass in his neighbor's yard were finally cleaned up by the neighborhood workers.

Yet, Caleb's neighbor seemed to have vanished into thin air. The large bedroom window remained unrepaired, and from Caleb's vantage point, the house had an oddly desolate feel.

-

"Good morning, Officer Johnson."

It was another ordinary workday. In the spacious and well-lit changing room, a colleague who had just finished the night shift greeted Caleb with a yawn.

Caleb worked as a prison librarian, a clerical position not strictly considered an "officer". However, since he wore the same uniform as the correctional officers, everyone grouped him with them.

Caleb returned the greeting as he removed his white short-sleeved shirt. Then, he retrieved a deep gray uniform shirt from his private locker.

There were three different types of uniforms for the Southern Prison's officers—one for summer and one for winter, as well as a format set. The summer and winter uniforms differed mainly in fabric thickness and sleeve length, while the formal set was a sharply tailored jacket worn only on special occasions.

The uniforms provided were standardized in style and available only in small, medium, and large sizes.

As Caleb was lean and slender, he found the standard sizes didn't fit him well, with the uniform fitting snugly at his shoulders but too loose around his chest and waist. He had ended up taking the uniform to a tailor outside the community to have it altered, and the shirt now fitted his waist perfectly.

He buttoned up from top to bottom, hiding his slim shape beneath the fabric, and meticulously arranged the crisp collar. Though he was dressed in the same uniform as everyone else, the mirror reflected an atypical officer.

Compared to his burly colleagues, Caleb looked more like a weak, scholarly figure. Although he stood at 5 feet 11 inches tall, he gave the impression of someone who could be easily knocked down with a single punch.

That was largely due to his clean and delicate appearance, which made him seem vulnerable. If his skin were a bit darker, his refined features might not have appeared so striking. But with his pale skin and lips as pink as cherries, it wasn't surprising that people might view him as a person who was easily bullied.

When Caleb first joined Southern Prison, the warden had solemnly warned him to pay close attention to his personal safety.

Caleb understood the warden's concern—personal safety was really code for "rear safety".

However, more than half a year had passed without any incidents.

After changing into his uniform, Caleb went to the mailroom to collect letters addressed to the inmates. He then spent half an hour meticulously checking each letter's contents. Just as all visitations were monitored, all letters sent to the prison had to be inspected.

Caleb enjoyed this part of his job immensely. It was a legitimate form of voyeurism—he didn't have to restrain himself or feel any psychological burden. Technically, it wasn't even voyeurism since it was simply part of his job.

Most inmates who wrote letters had a genuine desire for reform. They cared about their families and dreamed of a better future. These letters showed a glimpse of truth to Caleb's belief that no one was inherently evil.

Once he delivered the letters to the respective cell blocks and sent out the replies, Caleb's morning tasks were essentially complete.

Frankly, the job was incredibly easy, with generous benefits. The only reason it wasn't more popular was the need to interact with inmates, causing many people to be unwilling to work there.

Caleb's office was located in a quiet library, in a corner by the window. The quarter-circle desk created a right-angle segment in the corner, which was just large enough to accommodate a single person working.

Aside from Caleb, few people entered this space. Over time, it had become his personal domain.

He turned on his computer and checked the news. The sensational national economic case from earlier had reached a verdict. An employee with the surname Zephyr from the implicated firm had been sentenced to one year in prison, fined 40 million, and taken into custody immediately.

Since the courthouse that released the verdict was local, it seemed likely that a new inmate would arrive soon.

As Caleb thought about this, the distant rumble of a large bus approached. He glanced out of the window casually, then, as was his habit, pulled a copy of a booklet titled "Inmate Regulations" out of his drawer.

Every individual entering prison for their sentence had to undergo education and reform, and Caleb oversaw the first educational class they attended. After all, he had the most time among his colleagues here.

By the time the new batch of inmates had completed their paperwork, it was already afternoon.

The block supervisor of the cell block appeared at the library's door, tapping it with a clipboard.

"We've brought them," he said to Caleb.

"Alright," Caleb responded as he tucked the regulation booklet under his arm.

He took the clipboard containing the inmates' files from the block supervisor and walked towards the small conference room.

Three new inmates had arrived today. As Caleb descended the stairs, he reviewed their files.

First was a telecom fraudster who had swindled a wealthy woman out of her entire fortune. Next was a thug who had maimed someone, leaving the victim unable to care for himself.

So, the remaining one should be the notorious...

Caleb's steps abruptly halted at the conference room door. He pushed it open with one hand as he stared incredulously at the file in his hand.

Marcus Zephyr, male, 27 years old, 6 feet 1.2 inches tall...

The standard details didn't shock Caleb, but what truly jolted him was the familiar face in the photo section. The man's ear-length hair had been cut quite short, which accentuated his deep-set features with an added hint of determination.

No matter how Caleb looked at it, this face was identical to the one he was accustomed to seeing through his telescope.

So, the "employee with the surname Zephyr" mentioned in the news was actually the same "Mr. Zephyr" who lived across from his house?

Caleb was deeply shocked. It was no wonder his neighbor had disappeared for so long and couldn't even get around to fixing his window—he had been taken into custody.

The three people in the conference room were watching Caleb, who was momentarily stunned. He quickly regained his composure and took a deep breath before setting the clipboard down and meeting their gazes with a calm expression.

Caleb had to admit that when his eyes met Marcus', his heart couldn't help but skip a beat.

It was a reaction born out of the guilt of a voyeur, a shiver that came from deep within. Caleb had never looked directly into Marcus' eyes before. His dark pupils seemed sharp, alert, and inscrutable, almost instantly reminding Caleb of an experienced hunter.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor—the person Caleb had been avoiding had now appeared before him in the most unexpected way.

Caleb barely had time to be shocked further, as he could feel Marcus scrutinizing him with equal calm, examining everything from his appearance and uniform to the booklet he held under his arm.

Most inmates were like tigers.

If a person turned and ran, they would only be seen as prey, and the outcome was certain death. Instead, if a person faced them with calm and intimidation, they might dissuade the inmates from pursuing them and gain a slim chance of survival.

Caleb knew this well. He took a steady step forward, his boots echoing on the floor as he approached the conference table. With a decisive thud, he slammed the clipboard onto the table, lifted his chin slightly, and looked down at the three men before him indifferently.

"Hello, everyone. I am your instructor, Caleb Johnson."