After seventeen years of imprisonment, I stood at the prison gate with a torn woven bag.
The younger brother who took the blame for me came to pick me up in a Mercedes-Benz, with a girl in school uniform sitting in the passenger seat.
"Brother Long said it's time for you to rest."
I stared at the scorpion tattoo exposed on his sleeve, which I had tattooed on him myself.
The phone rang, an unknown number said: "Welcome back, someone is offering you three million to buy your leg."
I laughed and threw the woven bag into the trash can.
When I went in seventeen years ago, this leg was worth five million.
