When Aunt Lin ignored the calls, the neighbors finally twigged that she'd conned them. The owners' group lit up with polite fury. But Aunt Lin? She'd already tossed shame aside. She didn't care about curses anymore.
Someone else, though, had started eyeing her booty — Chen Zhenghao.
Five days in, no one truly knew the full scope outside. It hadn't yet turned into total open-war over food. In Zhang Yi's memory, Chen would later lead raids and even murder for supplies. But not yet. Gangsters still kept a little calculation; they weren't blindly cannibalistic. Even after Zhang Yi had put a bolt in his leg, Chen hadn't gone full-on looter without certainty.
Now his own shelves were thin. Gang types didn't hoard like careful civilians; his fridge was full of frozen beer — pretty, useless, and needing smashing if you wanted a drink.
Aunt Lin's scheme caught Chen's attention. She'd been "collecting for unified distribution." He'd scoffed — until he realized she'd actually swindled goods from neighbors. Perfect excuse. Take her haul and call it cleanup. If the snow melted and things got messy later, Aunt Lin would be the one with blood on her hands — who'd stand with her then?
So he called.
At Aunt Lin's, she was nibbling cookies with little Xiaohu, waiting for the brief power window to boil instant noodles. When the phone rang, Xiaohu piped, "Grandma, phone!" She assumed the usual—some irate old neighbor. Then she saw the caller ID and her face drained: "Chen Zhenghao?"
She answered, voice small and sharp. Chen's laugh came through the line like a crow. "Aunt Lin. You did well, getting all that stuff together."
The word supplies tightened her throat. "As the Neighborhood Committee… I'm coordinating distribution," she croaked.
Chen cut her off with a cold chuckle. "Perfect. We're short. Send it over."
She froze. He actually wanted her loot. She'd never expected the thug to come asking. She tried to stall, voice shaky: "I have to coordinate. Some families haven't turned theirs in yet—can't distribute yet."
Chen's patience snapped. "Old hag, don't play dumb. You pocketed it, didn't you? Hand it over or I'll come get it."
Aunt Lin went pale. She'd bullied old folks and conspired with the timid, but she had no playbook for a gangster at her door. She blustered, "What do you want? Don't act rashly—I'm a Neighborhood Committee worker!"
Chen laughed at the title. "Pah. Don't flatter yourself. If you don't give it, I'll take it."
He hung up and moved. The storm had pulled people together in tight packs. Chen had his men under one roof now — warm bodies, broken limbs stitched, and mouths to feed. The math was ugly. Too many mouths, too little food.
He summoned the crew and marched on Aunt Lin's place, limping with a mop as crutch and a bat for theater. Zhang Yi watched it all over his feeds, feet on the table, chips in hand, a cartoon flickering on the screen. "Dog-eat-dog," he muttered with a grin. "Showtime."
Five days in and already the building had drama. He thought of the duped neighbors — some would still fall for Aunt Lin's tricks. Humans loved betting on authority; give them a committee stamp and they'd hand over their last rice bowl.
Zhang toyed with a thought: post the raid in the owner's group. The idea made him smile. He hit record.
Chen and his crew reached Aunt Lin's door and began to shout. Yuelu Community was mid-tier; every unit had a security door. Those doors kept out opportunistic thieves — not a determined mob.
Aunt Lin had tried barricading. She'd shoved a table and sofa against the lock. But her defenses were furniture; Chen's gang had bats, pipes, crowbars — experience. They smashed the deadbolt. Sparks flew. The camera showed the living-room blockade tumble.
Zhang watched Aunt Lin's face on the feed. It was small and white and terrified.