Chapter 85: Coercion

Prison cell, time unknown.

Judging by the meal delivery schedule, this was likely another day after she woke up.

This meal arrived very late.

So late that Lu Jia had sat blankly against the wall, meticulously sketching in her mind every inspiration she had never painted from childhood to now.

Thus, it probably wasn’t dinner but more likely breakfast or lunch the next day.

Before Shen Zhiwei left yesterday, Lu Jia had been knocked out again with an anesthetic injection.

When she woke, she found herself lying on the bed, faint light filtering in from outside. The bloodstains on her hands, feet, and face had all been cleaned up. Based solely on the still-wet blood on the floor, she figured she hadn’t been unconscious for long this time either.

Her wrists and ankles were shackled with restraints she had never seen before—long chains between them, long enough for free movement.

Her limbs felt sore and weak, but the swollen, lacerated red marks on her wrists had improved slightly.

Even with two surveillance cameras, Lu Jia merely glanced at them indifferently and openly inspected the entire cell without hiding.

Besides the four walls, there was no spot where she could harm herself.

Unless she mimicked movie scenes and bashed her head against the wall.

But that was too unpredictable and would genuinely injure her skull—unlike sharp objects such as pencils.

Lu Jia’s knowledge of artistic anatomy was excellent; she could control it to avoid fatal damage yet still require medical attention. If she could get out, she might have a chance to escape or be found by Sheng Shubai.

She temporarily shelved the thought and turned to the visitor.

The meal deliverer was a hunched old woman.

Lu Jia tried asking the date and time, but the woman’s cloudy eyes darted around without responding.

The barred window on the door was pulled open from outside.

Seeing Lu Jia not taking the food, the old woman grew anxious, making guttural “geh geh” sounds and gesturing incoherently at her.

She was a mute.

Sensing something from Mute Granny’s attitude, Lu Jia took the box—uncertain if it was breakfast or lunch—and opened it to find a hot Chinese breakfast: soup dumplings and plain congee.

Song Lan only imprisoned them; she had no intention of mistreating them with food.

This heightened Lu Jia’s vigilance.

If not physiological means, then it had to be psychological.

Verbal attacks on the heart? Or perhaps… fear.

But from chopsticks to box, everything was made of unbreakable material, foiling Lu Jia’s plan to slit her wrists and force medical evacuation.

The corridor wasn’t wide; peeking sideways didn’t reveal its full length.

Estimating from Mute Granny’s stride and footsteps, it stretched at least ten meters in both directions, maybe farther, with her cell near the center.

Both sides were cells. If each was the standard three meters wide, there were about a dozen.

Seven windows had opened earlier, with six meal boxes left in the basket.

Including herself, that made fourteen people.

But Song Lan’s missing students didn’t number that many. Were the extras like her—kidnapped students whose teachers and families hadn’t searched?

Questions flooded her chest, but no one answered.

The entire prison seemed to hold only her as a normal person.

Occasional hoarse growls came from the left, inhuman at first listen, but closer inspection revealed they were broken sobs and pleas.

She had tried communicating with the young woman across from her, but got no response.

Through the narrow window, Lu Jia could see what the other was doing: sitting at a desk, scribbling furiously on paper with an indistinct pen, her expression fanatical and obsessed, painting as if racing a countdown.

Lu Jia hadn’t understood her urgency at first.

Until mealtime. After delivering hers, Mute Granny turned and opened the opposite window.

The woman lunged forward eagerly, shoving her draft through the slit in desperation.

Besides the standard meal box, Mute Granny handed her an extra lit “cigarette.”

Lu Jia watched the girl devour it ravenously; the ember flickered in the dimness, her cheeks flushing rosier than before.

A chill ran through Lu Jia’s heart.

She finished her meal, and soon the boxes were collected.

As Mute Granny left with the large basket, a scraping sound came from the upper right—another iron panel sliding open.

“You Granny, thanks for the hard work.”

A woman’s voice carried down the passage: Song Lan.

Song Lan asked her, “Have those Muses in the Dark Rooms been eating properly today?”

Silence for seconds. Reading You Granny’s sign language, Song Lan’s tone darkened: “Got it. Go upstairs and get busy.”

She walked to the end of the passage, pausing extra long by Lu Jia’s cell.

“How’s the stay? Comfortable?”

Lu Jia didn’t respond.

“By rights, with your stubborn streak, you should have gone straight to a Dark Room.”

Song Lan chuckled lightly. “But Zhiwei couldn’t bear it. She begged me specially to let you experience this slowly—best spot in the house.”

Lu Jia clearly saw the girl across flinch violently when Song Lan said “Dark Room,” her head snapping up.

Dark Room—kept in total blackness?

Lu Jia’s heart skipped, recalling her initial confinement. The unknown without outlines bred fear. Fortunately, this room had lights, providing timed illumination for painting.

She had been bound then, unable to grope for the switch.

Five minutes later, Lu Jia understood Song Lan’s “feel it properly.”

From the left came sounds of someone being dragged out—shackles clinking coldly on the floor.

Soon after, agonized moans and pleas.

She couldn’t guess Song Lan’s methods. The young woman’s voice went from defiant silence to cursing resistance, then tearful begging, until dragged back with a piercing shriek.

Followed by Song Lan’s delighted, satisfied laugh.

Lu Jia didn’t expect to be next.

When Song Lan returned, fresh blood stained her hand; she wiped it disgustedly with a wet wipe, glancing at Lu Jia expectantly for a reaction.

Not getting it, Song Lan tsked and pressed a small device at Lu Jia. The chains on her ankle cuffs retracted to twenty centimeters, while the wrist cuffs shrank into true manacles, immobilizing her.

She bound Lu Jia’s arms to her torso, then shoved her. “Walk.”

Confined who-knew-how-long, Lu Jia exited the cell for the first time.

Song Lan made her walk ahead. Limited by the ankle chain, her steps were tiny; Song Lan followed unhurriedly, unurging.

The eight nearest cells on this side were identical; six occupied. The next pair lacked windows, only heavy doors with view-blocked panels.

Dark Rooms?

Lu Jia’s gaze lingered.

Song Lan raised a brow, slid the panel up, and shone a flashlight inside—eliciting hisses.

In that instant, Lu Jia’s pupils contracted:

A snake as thick as a wrist, confined with the girl.

“Relieved? You nearly shared her fate.” The venomous whisper slithered in her ear.

Lu Jia pressed her lips.

She blinked and walked on.

The end opened into a wider space: a cross-shaped wooden pillar like in the cells, and a chair linked to odd devices.

Bracing for torture, Lu Jia was surprised when Song Lan veered to stairs leading up.

Sudden daylight hit.

Lu Jia squinted uncomfortably.

“After moving in, you’re the first to come up.”

Song Lan’s tone dripped magnanimous grace, then she laughed. “Of course, just temporarily.”

A quick scan told Lu Jia where this was.

Song Lan’s private collection gallery, which Shen Zhiwei had mentioned countless times.

Printmaking treasures everywhere.

On the first floor’s center hung the Qinghui Cup Gold Award she had seen before, shrouded in white cloth—identifiable only from the adjacent info plaque.

Lu Jia withdrew her gaze impassively as Song Lan introduced piece after piece.

The first floor was mostly Song Lan’s own handiwork.

On the second floor, the woman didn’t shy from crediting the “Muses,” detailing whose inspiration was cleverest and her modifications.

They skipped the third floor—face-saving pieces and decent student works.

Students versus Muses.

To Song Lan, even if most Muses started as purported students, they remained distinct.

Her chosen Muses were primed from the start for the basement. True students—healthy, outwardly active—were selected carefully, cowards unwilling to expose her.

On the second-floor rest area, she poured red wine.

Lu Jia stayed silent, but Song Lan sipped unperturbed, speaking to herself. “Lu Jia, I originally wanted to keep you as a student.”

Last year’s exhibition: she met a professor from China.

They paused at the same realistic figure print, chatting naturally.

The professor showed a student’s thesis piece. One glance, and Song Lan knew: this artist must be her student.

Learning Lu Jia’s ordinary background delighted her.

She immediately sent Shen Zhiwei back, but too late—Lu Jia had tangled with the detested Sheng Family.

How could that be?

“With your talent, you should shine among the underprivileged scholars, be their role model—show ordinary students have paths here, right?”

“But why link with the Sheng Family young ones? Desperate to climb using their name?”

Her questions turned aggressive.

Lu Jia’s gaze passed the platform to the atrium’s center: Sheng Ling’s shrouded work from back then.

Such a prominent spot, yet covered.

Greedy, vain, yet too cowardly to face her filth.

Long silence made Song Lan’s displeasure overflow.

Lu Jia spoke calmly: “Follow the routine, ostensibly your student, but really like those basement folk—’Muses’ imprisoned here forever?”

Her first words to Song Lan since the kidnapping.