THE REN UPGRADE: MONSTERS WITHIN

The Rude Awakening

At exactly 8:15 on Sunday evening, an explosion ripped through the upper floor of Tokyo state penitentiary. 

Ren Carter had been inside cell 304 on that floor, wishing death upon himself for failing his family. 

Back to his bed, eyes locked tight, he had been in deep thought. Searching for a means to a permanent end. 

But his cellmates were a bunch of talkatives who never failed to yell and bicker until they doubled over in laughter, and, eventually, deep sleep. 

And that was why Ren had planned to make his move that night, after everyone was out like a flame. 

“Hey, newbie,” someone snapped their fingers in his face. 

Ren’s eyes flew open, and he frowned at the shaggy face leering down at him. 

“Are you daft?” The man slurred. “They’re talking to you.”

Ren swept his gaze around the cramped space. Four inmates were huddled over a game of cards in the middle of the room. The noisemakers. Another inmate had his face buried in a pornographic magazine, beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. 

Someone was striding towards the bathroom, cradling what seemed to be like his potty. 

Ren frowned and looked at the man whose bad breath fanned down his face. “Who?”

“Him!” He sneered, jamming his finger in no definite direction. Still frowning, Ren followed the finger. To the left of the room, another inmate convulsed on his bed, an obvious torture of withdrawal. 

Ren lifted himself off the bed and arched his brows. This was supposed to be an eight-man cell, but there were nine people in the room at the moment. 

“Hey, lad! We're talking to you!” The long-haired inmate who seemed to be in his fifties yelled at Ren. He was among those playing the cards. Scarface, that's what they called him. “You come in here thinking you're better than everyone else, don't you?”

Ren stared for a moment. Then he yawned. And stretched. 

Scarface seemed triggered. He slammed his fist on the table of cards. “Enough of your nonsense! You're just a stupid psychopathic kid who murdered a shitload of folks, his sister included! You dare act so righteous!?”

Ren winced at the painful reminder. He heaved a sigh and scratched his brow. 

Truly, it was his fault his sister was dead, and he was in prison. But they made him do it. Those evil people. 

Nevertheless, all Ren wanted was to die. He was not confident enough to seek revenge. He was just a weak nobody who worked hard to pay his sister's medical bills. 

He had disappointed everyone. His dead parents, who left Rei in his care. Rei, who never got to live her dreams. Himself, most of all.  

He smirked. What else was there to live for?

“What are you smirking for?” Scarface screamed like a child. “Show some respect, fucker!”

Ren observed him with bored interest. “You’ve disrespected yourself the entire time.” He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “I have nothing to do with it.”

Scarface shot to his feet, angry veins running along his neck. “Your arrogance ends today, lad.” He cracked his knuckles and stomped forward. “I'll beat that shit out of you!”

Ren remained still, even closed his eyes. He wished Scarface would beat him until he stopped breathing. 

But as Scarface advanced with a roar and his fist raised, Curry with the magazine sprang to his feet and yelled. “Enough!” He glanced around the faces, wide-eyed. “Stop fooling around and listen!” he hissed. 

Everywhere fell silent. 

“Can you smell that?” he asked no one in particular. “Gas? In a cell?”

“I hear some kind of beep too,” Scarface added, his attention pulled away from the expectant Ren. 

“Strange, isn't it?” Curry demanded, heading towards the bathroom. Even though he did not seem like it, he used to be an expert doctor at a marine camp. He was trained to be alert. 

Ren watched with a racing heart as Curry snatched the curtain hanging over the bathroom, and ripped it aside. 

A heartbeat of silence passed. Then a scream tore through the room and echoed across the floor. “RUN! IT'S A BOM—”

BOOM!

The warning was barely finished when a thunderous explosion ripped through the room and across the floor. Bodies fell backwards, limbs splitting, cries of anguish fading. 

Pandemonium broke out in the other wings and floors of the penitentiary. Correctional guards went into full action. The warden yelled orders. Inmates screamed as they made their escape from the roaring fire. 

The fire exploded and crashed through walls. BLAST! The glass walls around the warden's office shattered. CRASH!

Panic surged. Screams filled the air. 

Speakers echoed through the floors. “Officers, evacuate the inmates. Activate the fire sprinklers. Call for help. Move, quick!”

Meanwhile, the fire dried up everyone in cell 304…to char. Everyone except for one person, who danced around in the flames, screaming his heart out. 

Ren Carter was not dead by the fire yet. He was in a dilemma, suffering the burning hotness of the fire from inside-out. Yet…never burning to death. 

He looked around him, and there were neutered limbs everywhere. Chunks of meat being roasted by the angry flames.

He was bothered by the mystery of why he was still alive in such a raging fire. Did the heavens decide that this was a worse punishment for him? Feeling the hotness of the fire but not quite dying?

His screams intensified. The inmates who escaped watched, some in reverential silence. Whispers of surprise rippled across the audience. 

“Is that man still alive? How is it possible? The fire is so hot!”

WEEOO WEEOO!!

Sirens sang in the distance. In a few moments, fire ambulances whizzed into the penitentiary. 

Firefighters were soon running into the building carrying fire extinguishers, hoses. “Out of the way!” They screamed. 

Ren thought he had been put out of his misery when the first gush of water slapped him. The impact was so strong as it hit him, he fell to his knees. 

Another one knocked him unconscious. 

Geared expert fighters charged into the fire and pulled him out. The rest of the fire was fought with expertise and dedication, and within minutes, the fire was out. 

The rounds were done and bodies were gathered. Ren was the only survivor. Or so it seemed. 

He was stretched out on a gurney, beyond recognition, and was being carried to an ambulance. Reporters already caught wind of the strange fire and were gathered. Paps were littered everywhere too, cameras in hand, positioned. 

“Where are you taking him?” The warden yelled as he came outside the premises. 

“He's suffered a fourth-degree burn, sir,” Zara, the penitentiary doctor, explained. “He has to be taken outside the prison to a standard hospital for treatment!”

“No!” Mr. Griffin yelled. “We'll do what we can for him within these walls. He'll be taken to the penitentiary clinic. Move it!”

The men carrying the gurney turned in the direction of the clinic.

All of a sudden, the unconscious Ren sprang upwards, screaming and clutching his chest. “ARGHHHHH! MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE!”

He seemed to be in deep agony. 

The correctional officers carrying him dropped the gurney in fear, fleeing backwards. 

Gasps of shock and whispers echoed through the audience. “What the hell? Is he okay? He's not going to survive this! What a shame!”

“PLEASE!” Ren kept screaming. Tears fell from his eyes. “IT’S SO HOT! MAKE IT STOP!”

Everyone stared at him in pity. No one could help him. 

The doctor rushed forward. But she was too late.

Ren already slumped against the gurney, knocked out cold. 

The warden tossed the doctor a wary look. “Is he dead?”

She trembled visibly, teeth clamping her bottom lip. “I…I think so.”