Three Years a Captive, Half a Life an Enemy

The early autumn wind carried B City's distinct salty sea air, harshly striking my face. The iron-gray prison gates slowly closed behind me with a dull clang, as if marking a hasty and cold full stop at the end of my three years behind bars. What was worn away were the jagged edges of my defiance; what could not be erased were two names etched deep into my very bones—Dylan Jones and Mario Scott. I looked down and tugged at my faded, worn-out jeans; the five hundred resettlement money in my pocket was clenched damply, its edges stained with sweat. My gaze crossed the street to the neon sign of the F Hotel opposite; its glare pierced my eyes—red and blue lights intertwined, strikingly reminiscent of the farce three years ago that dragged me into the abyss. As if driven by some unseen force, I stepped inside. "Sir, do you have a reservation?" The receptionist's smile was perfectly formed, as if cast from a mold, yet her tone carried a subtle hint of distant detachment. "Looking for someone." I answered vaguely, but my eyes sharply fixed on the electronic screen at the center of the lobby, where a line of gilded letters shone harshly—"Happy Birthday to Dylan Jones and Mario Scott." So today is their birthday after all. Well, that's good—it saves me the trouble of finding the opportunity myself. The banquet hall door was not shut tight, leaving a crack; through that slit, I caught sight of them at once. Mario Scott wore a tailored suit, the silk scarf at his collar tied with meticulous care; pride was unmistakably etched across his features. Dylan Jones stood beside him, his profile as handsome as before, yet the eyes that once brimmed with tenderness now held nothing but indifference. "Well, well, isn't this our Mr. Scott?" Mario Scott was the first to spot me; the sarcasm in his tone was like a fine, cruel needle, piercing steadily, 'What, can't stand the prison food, so you come here to mooch some wine?' Dylan Jones turned at the sound, his eyes scanning me from head to toe without so much as a flicker of feeling, as if he were simply looking at an insignificant stranger: 'What are you doing here?' "Prison furlough. Just passing through." I curled the corner of my lips, reached out, and seized a glass of red wine from the attendant's tray nearby. Before he could react, I raised my hand and dashed it across Mario Scott's face. The dark red wine trickled down Mario Scott's cheek, soaking the collar of his expensive suit and leaving behind an unsightly stain. "Mike Scott! Have you lost your mind?" he shouted, raising a hand to wipe his face, his delicate features twisted in pain, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. Dylan Jones shoved Mario Scott behind him and seized my wrist with a grip so strong it threatened to crush my bones: "Get out." "You're hurting me," I said. I struggled against his grip and looked up at him, a note of self-mockery in my voice. "Dylan, you weren't like this with me three years ago." "You were the one who embezzled public funds and committed a guilty act; what does that have to do with us?" Mario Scott thrust his head out from behind Dylan Jones, stiffening his neck and shouting as if he alone had been wronged. "Embezzlement of public funds?" I laughed to the point of tears, three years of suppressed frustration and grievance surging forth at once. "That forged authorization document bearing my signature—did you teach him to make it? Mario Scott, you have been jealous of me since childhood, stealing my toys, stealing my clothes, and now you want to steal my life as well. Are you truly this despicable?" Dylan Jones's expression darkened; he released my wrist yet retained that same icy demeanor: "Mike Scott, speak only when you have evidence. Baseless accusations will convince no one." "Evidence?" I pointed at his nose, my voice suddenly rising, "Three years ago, when my father lay unconscious in bed and the company was being stripped bare by you, I stood on the rooftop holding proof of your collusion to transfer company assets. It was you who rushed over and pulled me down. When I woke up, I was arrested by the police! You sat by my hospital bed, holding my hand, saying, 'Mike, I'm waiting for you to get out.' Does that not count as evidence?" "Dylan Jones, Mario Scott, what you owe me, what you owe my father, what you owe the Scott Family—I will reclaim it all, principal and interest, piece by piece." I shook off his hand and turned away; behind me came Mario Scott's furious curses, mingled with Dylan Jones's silent breaths, forming the clearest rhythm upon my path of vengeance. Stepping out of the hotel, the autumn wind swept into my collar, chilling me to the bone. I lifted my head to glance at the moon veiled by dark clouds and bit my teeth, muttering to myself, "Mike Scott, you must not lose. As long as you live, you must not lose."