Bruce Chen's world had shrunk to the cold sterility of the psychiatric ward. The walls, painted a sickly off-white, seemed to close in tighter each day. Bruce lay strapped to the bed, the coarse fabric of the suicide-prevention gown digging into his skin, the restraints chafing his wrists and ankles until the skin was raw. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hummed with a relentless, artificial brightness that made it impossible to tell day from night. The only thing Bruce could feel was the hollow ache of loss, the gnawing emptiness that had replaced his heart.
He refused food, refused water, refused to acknowledge the nurses who came and went with their bland, pitying faces. They hooked Bruce up to an IV, pumping nutrients into his veins, but it was a losing battle. Each day, Bruce felt himself growing lighter, as if he were slowly drifting away from his own body. Sometimes, he closed his eyes and tried to will himself into nothingness, hoping that if he just let go, he could slip quietly out of this world and join his parents on the other side.
But death, it seemed, would not come so easily. Instead, Bruce was left to rot in his own skin, a ghost trapped in a body that stubbornly refused to die.
One afternoon, as the routine of the ward ground on, the heavy door creaked open. In shuffled Old Zhao, the gaunt, wiry inmate who had tackled Bruce days before. His face was a roadmap of hardship, eyes sharp and alive beneath a shock of thinning gray hair. Old Zhao moved with a deliberate, unhurried grace, sweeping the floor, emptying bins, always keeping one eye on the guards outside.
When the hallway was quiet, Old Zhao made his way to Bruce's bedside. Bruce barely noticed at first, his gaze fixed on the cracks in the ceiling. Old Zhao let out a sigh, the sound rough and weary. "Kid, you can't just die here. That's not how your story ends."
Bruce didn't answer. He felt as if Old Zhao's words were coming from very far away, muffled by the thick fog of his grief.
Old Zhao leaned in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm not here to tell you to forgive. I'm not here to tell you to be the bigger man. But if you die now, who's left to avenge your parents?"
The words sliced through Bruce's numbness like a blade. For a moment, a flicker of something, anger, maybe, or hope, stirred in his eyes. He turned his head, just enough to look at Old Zhao, but still said nothing.
Old Zhao continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "You really think your folks died in an accident? No, kid. They were silenced. Somebody made damn sure they wouldn't find justice for you."
A chill ran through Bruce's body. He wanted to believe it wasn't true, but something about the way Old Zhao said it made it impossible to ignore. "What are you saying?" Bruce's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "How do you know?"
Old Zhao's lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "Call it an old man's intuition. I've seen enough in sixty years to know when something stinks. When things don't add up, there's always a reason."
Bruce's mind raced, dredging up every memory of his parents' last visit, every odd detail about their accident. "What didn't add up?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Old Zhao set his mop aside and looked Bruce in the eye. "Let me ask you straight, DID you kill the girl?"
Bruce shook his head, fierce and certain. "NO. I swear I didn't."
Old Zhao nodded, satisfied. "Exactly. You didn't do it, but somehow the evidence and witnesses all lined up against you. That's not coincidence. That's a setup. Someone killed the girl and pinned it on you. And your parents? They must've gotten too close to the truth. That's why they're dead."
The realization hit Bruce like a physical blow. The pain in his chest twisted, transforming into something sharper and hotter than grief, rage. Old Zhao watched Bruce's face, nodding as he saw the anger ignite behind the sorrow. "So, what'll it be? You going to die here, or are you going to live long enough to make them pay?"
Bruce's jaw clenched, tears burning in his eyes. "How? Look at me. I'm strapped to a bed, half-dead already. What can I do?"
Old Zhao's eyes glinted with something like approval. "If you want revenge, I can help. But first, you have to prove you've got the guts to see it through."
Bruce's voice trembled. "How do I prove it?"
Old Zhao shrugged. "Start by eating. If you recover and shown that you have calmed, they'll send you back to the cell block in a few days. Scar's already made it clear he wants you dead. If you can survive Scar and his crew, I'll know you're serious."
Bruce's heart pounded. Scar's influence in the prison was notorious, dozens of followers, all ready to kill on command. The odds were grim, and Bruce knew it.
Old Zhao read Bruce's fear and gave a slow, knowing smile. "How you survive is up to you. Prison is a brutal place, kid. If you can't keep yourself alive, you'll never get your revenge."
Bruce took a shaky breath, resolve hardening in his chest. "I'll survive. I swear it."
Old Zhao's lips curled in approval. He reached into his cleaning cart and tossed a battered medical textbook onto Bruce's chest. "Want a better chance? Read this. Learn which parts of the body are weakest, which blows kill fastest. Knowledge is power, kid, even in here."
Bruce glanced at the book, recognizing it as one of the ward doctor's. "Why this?"
Old Zhao's voice was cold and matter-of-fact. "Learn anatomy. Learn how to kill. If you want to take down Scar, or anyone else who stands in your way, you'll need every edge you can get."
Bruce's fingers tightened around the book. The weight of it was oddly comforting, a tangible reminder that he wasn't powerless. Understanding dawned, and with it, a grim determination. For the first time since his parents' death, Bruce felt the stirrings of purpose, a reason to fight, to live, to make those responsible pay in blood.
The next morning, the nurses found Bruce sitting up in bed, eyes clear and burning with a new light. He ate every bite of his breakfast, never breaking eye contact with the guards. Each swallow was a vow: I will survive. I will fight. I will avenge.
In the silence of the ward, Bruce Chen began to plot his return. The legend was just beginning, a story written in blood, resolve, and the unbreakable will of a man with nothing left to lose.