Zhang Yi played games and munched on imported snacks, living like a king while the rest of Tianhai — maybe 99% of the world — staggered through blackouts and water shortages.
Water was fixable: dig snow, melt it, boil it. Power was the killer. Modern bodies are soft; living at dozens of degrees below zero is a death sentence if you depend on plugged-in comforts.
It wasn't exactly the government's fault. Power plants weren't broken so much as their crews were stuck or unable to work. Zhang remembered the official pattern—short windows of power would come later, allocated carefully so not everyone died at once. But those trickle-hours would only charge phones or heat a kettle. Air conditioners and full-blown heaters? Forget it.
The group chat turned into a chorus of wails. Fear drove neighbors to cling to each other for warmth, looking for any scrap of hope.
Chen Zhenghao—now hobbling, leg ruined from Zhang's bolt—was freezing in his apartment. His underlings were worse. The hose-drench that had been a prank turned into a grim injury under these temperatures: soaked clothes became stiff as boards, cores dropped, and fevers flared. Some hit thirty-nine, some over forty. No one had ibuprofen; no one could risk a trip outside. Survive by grit? Not when ignorance meets a storm. Zhang hadn't killed them—letting them rot in slow misery felt better.
He sat on the carpet and gamed. Outside, the north wind howled and the snow cut at the windows. In here, it was twenty-seven degrees, bright and warm; food and entertainment were endless. If there was anything missing, maybe a woman to share it — but Zhang was done being gullible. The one who'd betrayed him before taught him better: in apocalypse, everyone's heart could rot at the sight of a noodle.
Then Aunt Lin struck.
She tagged everyone in the owners' group and posted an official-sounding order: because the blizzard had wrecked lives and the government had issued directives, starting now the Neighborhood Committee would collect each household's supplies and redistribute them uniformly. Cooperate, she wrote. Fail to obey and you'd be "dealt with" after the crisis. Don't think you can resist—every family had vulnerabilities.
Zhang snorted. Same playbook as before. Aunt Lin had channels and scraps of inside info; she'd known this was coming earlier than most and now wanted to turn that into a private freezer of supplies for her and her grandson. Her style was crude—an old woman with a shaky education and a greedy lung. Any competent person could smell the holes in the argument: no official agency would issue such a sweeping, confiscatory order. But in a building of fifty households, fear would always bend a few knees.
Zhang intended to watch, not interfere. Predictably, Aunt Lin's tough tone pushed some neighbors over the edge.
Wang Min on the 15th floor—Zhang's coworker and a famously thrifty woman who often brought items home from the warehouse—blew up. Of course Aunt Lin's plan would hit her family. "The snow blocks the door. We can't go out. Everyone's short on food. How can you confiscate everything?" she demanded. Sun Zhichao chipped in: "This is too much. People are struggling this hard—don't you have any shame?"
Aunt Lin pressed the voice key hard and spat back: "Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures! The snow will pass. It's redistribution, not theft. Many families have no food—are you so selfish? This is the organization's decision. If you don't comply, consequences will follow." Her voice was harsh; the owners bristled. At a moment like this, everyone feared being the one to refuse.
Zhang read it all and only smirked. He knew her well. In his last life she'd used scare tactics to skim supplies. This time she was doing the same, but bolder. She started in the group to panic the timid, then went private to break people down one by one.
Her private message landed in Zhang's inbox like a trap: "Xiao Zhang, you work in the warehouse. You must have lots of food—don't forget you bought three truckloads last time! Now everyone's in trouble; it's time to show your spirit. Don't worry, once this passes we'll return everything to you and everyone will remember your kindness."
The script was textbook: create public pressure, pry open private weakness. If she could con one family, she'd extend the supply of survival days for herself and the boy. And she'd started with Zhang—the warehouse supervisor who actually could make good on the goods.
He didn't plan to cave. He didn't plan to expose her either. Whether the neighbors lived or died had become somebody else's problem. He turned the TV back on and picked up his controller.
Power and water? He'd planned for this: backup batteries, silent generators, fuel cans and solid alcohol stashed for weeks. For water he'd put aside five hundred tons of tap water and warehouses full of bottled drinks. He could melt snow if need be. Short neither in energy nor in clean water, Zhang leaned back and let the neighborhood flap itself raw.