Mexico should not be defined.

Except by chicken wraps.

And drugs and gunfights.

Even God would have to wear a helmet if he came to Mexico.

Standing in the desert 80 kilometers outside Mexico City is the highest-security federal prison in the entire federation.

——El Altiplano! (The High Plateau!)

This is a gathering place for Mexican gang members and drug traffickers, with an average of 5 big drug traffickers, 3 gang leaders, and 2 serial killers out of every 10 inmates.

The 5000 inmates are each the "cream of the crop" from the gangs and the "elite of the drug trafficking world"; just bringing one out could threaten national security.

Stitching with a sewing machine?

Don't make me laugh.

These drug traffickers can spend money to get people from the outside to work for them, and occasionally when they are happy, they can give some money, turning jail guards into laborers.

Of course, this carefree lifestyle has been much restrained since the Camorer incident in 1985.

The United States got angry.

Keep these beasts locked up; as long as they don't escape from the cage, it's fine—Mexico doesn't have the death penalty...

But it was just a reduction.

After all, although Franklin's face is hideous, the US Dollar still smells very sweet.

Second District.

In the toilets.

A young man with a robust figure, wearing a black prison guard uniform, short black hair, and deep brown pupils, looked at himself in the mirror.

Gao Jun's eyes still held a trace of disbelief.

It had been two weeks since he had crossed over, and he was still somewhat unaccustomed.

Originally, he was a boxer, the kind who specialized in free combat in Southeast Asia. During a so-called fight of the century, he didn't comply with rigging the match and was directly killed.

His full name now was Victor Carlos Vieri, a Mexican prison guard, who had been "administratively suspended" for two weeks due to work reasons and was just returning to work today.

But that wasn't the worst part; the craziest thing was that he discovered his eyes could see through a person's criminal life!

If he caught or shot dead a criminal, he could obtain corresponding points, and through a virtual panel, he could gain skills, weapons, or even assistants.

However, it all depended on the job; he had to rise in rank to unlock them!

This wasn't forcing him to become some kind of shining savior in Mexico, right?

Fortunately, there was no compelling requirement to arrest anyone, nor were there any tasks. It was completely up to you whether you wanted to play or not—if not, then get lost attitude.

"Damn it, to hell with this!" He took a deep breath, turned on the faucet, and splashed water vigorously onto his face. The extra memories in his head were still giving him a slight headache.

"Hey! Victor, the warden is calling for you."

The toilet door was pushed open, and a white man with a potbelly, a baby face, and a Policía Tercero (Police Junior Sergeant) badge on his shoulder shouted. Seeing the water droplets on the other's face, his voice faltered.

"Are you trying to drown yourself in the sink? I'm sorry to tell you that your head won't fit."

Victor wiped his face with a guard's uniform, walked towards the toilet door, and said, "When I die, I'll make sure to take you with me, Casare. I wouldn't want you to be too lonely."

"No, no, no, I want to live to be 100 like my great-grandfather. By then, I'll get the $200,000 from the insurance company, and I'll immigrate to the United States!"

Live to be 100?

Your bones would have been dragged away by dogs.

Victor glanced at him and prayed to God to protect him.

Seeing that Victor didn't respond, Casare looked left and right, then lowered his voice, "Hey, buddy, you shot and killed Hoyle. The Gulf Group's guys are probably going to have a grudge against you. A boss has already put out a word; they want you dead in prison."

In his memory, Victor remembered.

Two weeks ago, just a few days after he transmigrated, he didn't know what got into the warden's head, but they decided to hold a soccer match.

And it was between people from Tijuana and Juarez—holy crap, seriously holy crap.

Both groups had once been under Guadalajara, but after the Godfather went to prison, the organization disbanded, and they had been fighting over territory ever since.

The game of soccer eventually turned into a brawl.

A drug trafficker carrying a couple of handguns, no problem, right? It gradually escalated into a riot, and who knows where they got those guns from?

More and more factions joined the chaos, and the prison called in the Guard Corps to suppress it, but during this period, Victor, who was hiding on the side, "just happened" to run into Hoyle from the Gulf Group. The guy charged at him with a vicious smile.

The two of them fought, and in an opening, Victor got the opportunity and shot him dead.

For this, he gained 1000 points.

Hoyle was no low-level thug.

But something Hoyle said stuck firmly in Victor's mind.

"Finally found you!"

Why was he looking for him?

His former self had no conflict with him.

There seemed to be something fishy.

That riot was quickly suppressed, but he was injured, so he got two weeks of paid leave.

But since he had killed a boss from the Gulf Group, Victor was extra cautious, not daring to stay at home. He hid in hotels and kept changing locations but was still found, and an assassin shot at him several times before escaping.

But the shooter's skills were clearly taught by his grandmother; he didn't hit the mark.

Otherwise, he should be waiting to be reincarnated by now.

In the prison corridor, you rarely see sharp angles, nor did you see people out for air because of the riot that killed 17 people, everyone was locked in their zones.

However, the warden had enough pull that he wasn't unseated and was still comfortably ensconced on his fishing platform.

As they were reaching the office door, a white man with a Policía Segundo (Sergeant) badge came out just in time. He noticed Victor, his gaze grew sharp, but he quickly composed himself and put on a smile again.

"Oh, Victor, I'm so happy to see you! How have you been? Feeling any better?"

Seeing the other person's smile, Victor instinctively felt a bit of aversion. From his memory, he knew the man's name, Haggis Baird, a true crime scion.

The Haggis family was a criminal family from Chihuahua City, with Baird as one of its members.

The background checks under the Mexican police system were practically non-existent, and many criminal organizations would plant their members into government departments to serve as protection umbrellas.

With money paving the way, many had risen to high positions long ago.

For instance, in 1987 when the Juarez leader Acosta was killed, his successor named Aguilar became the Commander of the Mexican Federal Security Directorate. Only after him came the so-called "Sky King," Armando.

The reason for their disagreement was that Baird's father was apprehended by Victor's father and later died in a prison conflict.

A legacy of grudges passed down from their forefathers.

Victor felt uncomfortable at the sight of the other's smile and subconsciously blinked his right eye fiercely, which acted like a switch, instantly scanning for the other person's information.

Haggis Baird.

Male!

Born in 1958 into the criminal Baird family of Chihuahua City.

Entered the police academy in 1973.

...

Criminal Points: 300.

Just as I thought!

The original body's death had something to do with this guy!

This resume...

Even Jesus would have to turn vegetarian after seeing this.

This guy got into college at 25, graduated from Mexico City Police University in 3 years. That is to say, he came out at 28, and by now, at 31, he has risen to the rank of Sergeant. It has to be said, his promotion speed really needed a Viagra boost.

It took Victor 8 years to be promoted to Sergeant!

"I hope you'll enjoy your work from now on and take good care of yourself," Haggis Baird said, patting his shoulder, his tone laden with profound implications.

This guy is still trying to kill me!

Victor could feel the malice brimming beneath that smile.

"Buddy, this guy wants to take you down," Casare said worriedly. "Be careful, he plays dirty."

Looking at the concerned face of the plump little guy, Victor nodded, then turned his head to look at Baird's retreating figure with narrowed eyes.

He was not a weak person, a free fighter by trade; in other words, he was tough as nails at heart.

I need to find a way to kill him first!

"I'll be careful."

Casare nodded, glanced at his watch, "Let's have lunch together at noon. I've reached my guard shift, so I need to go patrol."

Without further ado, he hurried to the armory.

Victor adjusted his police uniform and knocked on the door. A deep male voice responded from inside, "Come in."

He pushed the door open only to see a man in his forties sitting inside, with a square face and mild eyes, coming across as a "good officer."

"Good morning, sir!" Victor said, saluting in the manner he remembered.

"Victor, how's your health? Come, sit and talk," Webster Ashburn inquired with concerned tones, pointing to the chair in front of him.

"I've completely recovered, sir."

Webster sighed with relief, "That's good to hear. If anything had happened to you, I wouldn't be able to face your father."

Victor's father and he had been colleagues.

However, the former had a short life, dying in a gang conflict with seven bullets in his back!

Webster appeared like an elder who cared for the younger generation, engaging in a few pleasantry questions before asking, "The pressure at the Second District is too much. I'm thinking of transferring you to the First Prison Zone. As soon as the Warden's position is vacated, you'll be in line to take over. What do you think?"

That good, huh?

The First Prison Zone was relatively speaking for "light offenders" – just occasional killing, dismembering, and maybe a bit of cooking the flesh. The minimum sentence for inmates there was 25 years.

Victor was a pragmatic man, and he believed that the good will from others always came with strings attached. Pie doesn't fall from the sky, but hand grenades might.

He was not related to Webster in any way, so why was he being so nice?

Don't attribute malice to what can be accounted for by worthlessness of the human heart.

Victor subconsciously blinked his right eye.

The other person's information became crystal clear all at once.

And the longer he looked, the more his pupils narrowed in focus.

Webster Ashburn

Male!

Born in 1944 in Monterrey.

Enlisted in the United States Coast Guard Academy at 16, killed a black man in a fight on campus at 18, was expelled, returned to his country in 1975 to join the local police department, became a member of the Monterrey Drug Enforcement Unit in 1978, the same year he joined the Gulf Group. In 1981, he became the senior assistant of the Chihuahua City State Police Department, was promoted to Deputy Police Commissioner in 1984, and has been serving as Warden of "El Altiplano!" prison ever since.

...

Recent Priority: Has agreed to Haggis Baird's request to assist in his promotion to Sergeant First Class, eliminating other obstacles, will transfer Victor to the First Prison Zone, and has assigned "Press Machine," the alias of the former Gulf Group member Jerry Aldrich, to kill him during exercise time!

Criminal Points: 21,000!

Seeing that number, which seemed about to turn red, Victor felt deeply malicious intent.

Now, a phrase suddenly came to his mind.

Give up...

The outside is full of Jackie Chans!