As Bruce Chen slowly began to eat again, the color of life crept back into his cheeks. Each spoonful was a silent defiance against the oblivion he had so long craved. The hospital ward's artificial light glimmered off the thin line of an IV in his arm, and the bitter taste of medicine was gradually replaced by real food, however bland. He ate in measured silence, his eyes no longer empty but watching, always watching.
Old Zhao visited every day, never missing a beat. The old man's shuffling footsteps entered Bruce's routine, grounding him. Where others might have offered only platitudes, Old Zhao brought lessons, some straightforward, some cloaked in riddles. One morning, with only the creak of a rickety chair and the distant murmur of guards for company, Old Zhao perched at Bruce's bedside.
"Rule number one," Old Zhao said, voice steady, barely above a whisper, "if something feels off, there's always a reason. Never decide on impulse. Think everything through, backward and forward, before making your move."
Bruce studied Old Zhao, seeing not just a survivor but a man forged in more fires than prison alone could provide. "How do you know all these things?" Bruce asked, genuine curiosity coloring his tone.
Old Zhao's eyes sparkled with mischief and a history he would not share. "Life is a longer sentence than this place. I didn't survive by being stupid."
"Who were you, before you got here?" Bruce pressed, emboldened by their growing camaraderie.
The old man's mouth curved into a knowing, dismissive smile. "Let me teach you another rule, do not be too curious about others in here. Curiosity is dangerous. All you need to know is my surname is Zhao."
That day, after the doctor declared Bruce nearly healed, he delivered news: "You'll go back to the cell block tonight. Get your things in order."
The clock on the wall marked just after two in the afternoon. Bruce considered the timing, running possibilities through his mind as Old Zhao had taught him. He motioned the doctor over. "Is there any chance I could return now instead of this evening?"
The doctor raised a brow, unused to such requests. "Most don't hurry to leave this ward."
Bruce looked him in the eye. "It's safer now. At night, my cell will be full of Scar's men. If I have any chance, it's now, while half of them are out working."
A moment of hesitation, then a nod. "I'll have a guard arrange it," the doctor said.
As soon as the door closed, Old Zhao came over, broom in hand. "Why the rush to go back into hell?" he asked, peering at Bruce with interest.
Bruce kept his voice low. "Nighttime, there'll be eight men in my cell, all loyal to Scar. If I wait until dark, I won't make it through the night. Going now is my only chance. Most will still be in the workshop."
Old Zhao's lips parted in a slow, approving smile. "Good answer. Always think a few moves ahead. If you make it through this, if you survive Scar, I will do what I promised. I'll help you find your way out of prison."
Bruce's hands tightened into fists, knuckles white, but his gaze was steady. "I'll survive," he promised.
Old Zhao gave Bruce's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Remember the rules. Remember what you've learned. Trust in your own mind—let instinct and logic be your weapons. And don't forget," he nudged a battered medical book closer, "there's more power in knowledge than in brute strength. Use all of it."
With the ward empty save for dust motes dancing in the fading light, Bruce packed what little he had. He paused by the window; the outside world, impossibly distant, was reduced to a strip of sky between concrete and bars. But Bruce was not the same boy who'd once cowered on a prison floor. He was marked by loss and by Old Zhao's lessons, sharper, harder, yet burning now with a purpose that nothing could extinguish.
On the edge of the unknown, Bruce offered Old Zhao a final glance. "If I make it out of this cell alive, I'll be coming back to thank you. And then I'll be coming for the truth."
Old Zhao's rare smile lingered as Bruce left the infirmary, escorted by a silent pair of guards. As Bruce stepped into the long shadowed corridor, heart thumping but head clear, he felt the weight of survival and vengeance fuse into a single wordless vow. Whatever waited in that cell, he would face it prepared, not as a victim, but as a fighter. The next chapter of his survival, and perhaps his revenge, was about to begin.