CHAPTER 421: CHAPTER 261 COLLABORATION_1

"Are you awake?"

As Dean was processing the information in his mind, a woman’s voice came from nearby.

Dean turned his head slightly. An older woman in a white lab coat, flanked by two burly prison guards, was walking into the room. She looked at Dean with undisguised disgust.

However, judging by the prison guards’ attitude, the two men clearly weren’t wary of Dean.

Dean sat up, touching his head. "Yes, I’m awake. What happened to me? For some reason, my head feels dizzy, and it seems I’ve forgotten what happened before."

He wasn’t clear about the situation yet. Keeping his mouth shut and playing it by ear was undoubtedly the better choice.

However, Dean had been overthinking things.

The prison guard who had followed the female doctor in spoke casually, "There was a bloody conflict in your room. You and one other person are the only survivors. But that luck ends here. Actually, even if you hadn’t woken up, we were already preparing to move you to a new room."

With that, the two men approached, cuffed Dean’s hands and feet, and half-dragged, half-carried him outside.

The fierce wind whipped sand against Dean’s face.

Dean instinctively raised his hands to shield his eyes, peeking through the gaps between his fingers at the scene outside.

This must still be a prison.

Crumbling walls, disordered and withered plants, and small whirlwinds kicking up amber dust were everywhere. The spiritless guards had automatic rifles slung at their waists and grenades hanging from their belts, lazily seeking shade to skive off. On the highest lookout tower, the keeper was actually asleep in a hammock, swaying with the breeze... This prison isn’t just run-down; compared to the private prisons in the United States, it’s like contrasting an urban apartment with a rural brick house!

After they walked through the empty corridor outside the infirmary, one of the guards pulled open a large door further inside, revealing an open-air square.

This is probably the yard where prisoners get their outdoor time. There’s some basic exercise equipment, a gravel track, some benches, and groups of prisoners smoking cigarettes of unknown composition—laughing, cursing, and fighting. The atmosphere is completely different from my previous cell.

Guards patrolled here too.

Seeing a comrade escorting a frail man in, a guard who was sharing dirty jokes with a prisoner straightened his crooked hat and stepped forward. "Bob, is this the unlucky bastard who survived Basar?"

The guard escorting Dean shrugged. "That’s right. Find him any room for now. Once Basar is back to normal, this guy needs to be sent back to him."

The two of them discussed Dean’s fate right in front of him as if it were nothing.

Dean’s pupils shrank upon hearing this.

What the hell? Wait for that fat bastard to get back to normal, and then I’ll be sent back to him? This isn’t normal! In any country’s prison, if something like what happened before occurred, for the sake of stability, even if the guards were too lazy to investigate, they’d choose to eliminate the troublemakers or isolate them. They wouldn’t keep sending people back to such dangerous individuals, just waiting for the next volatile situation to detonate. Unless... unless that fat bastard exists to help the prison deal with certain inmates!

He recalled that before this body was sent to prison, its original owner had been suddenly ambushed by a group of Mexican anti-drug police. They’d falsely accused him of killing his best friend’s family of four and sent him here. That’s why he’d been made Basar’s roommate—a ’special favor’ from those anti-drug cops. Those bastards wanted to silence him!

Thinking of this, a ruthless glint flashed in Dean’s eyes.

They’ve gone too far!

After the guard named Bob left, the one who took charge of Dean looked him over. Noting Dean’s frail physique, he shook his head and said bluntly, "Buddy, I feel for you, but sympathy is sympathy, and business is business. So, what’s it going to be? Want to live comfortably, or want to live... ’meaningfully’?"

Dean raised his head. "Please be more specific."

"Simple. If you make us money, you’re our God. Safety, drugs, women, men, even a temporary breath of fresh air outside—we can arrange it all for you!"

Dean frowned. The former owner of this body was just a mediocre, street-level private investigator. He sometimes handled divorce cases for men but only catered to low-end clients. Besides, such business wasn’t exactly booming in chaotic Mexico. In essence, he was broke.

So, he had no choice but to ask, "And if I have no money?"

"No money?" The guard’s face twisted into a sinister grin. "Then you become merchandise. I’ll put you in a cell with inmates who have... particular needs. And I’ll help them get what they want from you. After all, they’ll have paid for it!"

Dean couldn’t help but curse inwardly. FUCK! Is there no law anymore?

He couldn’t resist glancing at the semi-automatic rifle on the guard’s waist.

No wonder. In a Mexico overrun with drug lords, where gangs are worse than stray dogs, even the guards in such a dilapidated prison are equipped with semi-automatic rifles and grenades, their firepower plentiful. Maybe I should just snatch his gun and fight my way out? Although this body is pretty useless, with my combat skills, I’m still confident I could take down this sleazy old timer of a guard in a surprise attack, in the blink of an eye.