Aunt Lin's stash had been looted by Chen Zhenghao. She and little Xiaohu were bruised and beaten—she barely moving, clinging to breath; the child struck so hard in the belly that internal damage threatened him. Desperate, Aunt Lin plastered pleas in the owners' group: someone, please help my grandson! But after her supply scam, no one wanted to touch her.
"Okay, I was wrong—please, my grandson is innocent!" she wailed. "He's just a child, please save him!"
The replies were cold and savage. "How do we know this isn't another trick?" "We're not doctors." "If you hadn't stolen everyone's food, Brother Hao wouldn't have hit your kid. You brought this on yourself."
Aunt Lin fell apart. "It's my fault—just save him and I'll kneel!"
Then a message: "Let me see the child. I can't promise I can cure him."
Zhang Yi read the name and pictured a tall, cool-headed woman. Zhou Ke'er — a surgeon from Tianhai First People's Hospital. In his previous life she'd saved people, one of the few decent neighbors who didn't look away. She rarely posted in the group, but now she stepped up. Aunt Lin bundled Xiaohu to her doorway, sobbing thanks.
Half an hour later Aunt Lin posted again, frantic: "Does anyone have hemostatics, anti-shock meds, antibiotics? My grandson needs surgery—please help! I'll kneel to you!"
The wound was bad; Xiaohu's liver was probably ruptured. Zhou Ke'er had stitched and stabilized him, but she didn't have the heavy meds on hand. The group exploded with nervous laughter: no one stocked antibiotics or shock meds at home.
Even Chen Zhenghao mocked, "Kneel in the group?" People laughed. Aunt Lin's voice trembled: "I'll kneel—please help!"
Zhang Yi paused. He did have antibiotics and anti-shock drugs in his pocket dimension, but he didn't feel like playing savior. Drugs were as precious as food; use them wrong and you'd lose the margin that kept you alive. Worse: Aunt Lin had scammed his neighbors. Let her panic. Let her fear her grandson dying. He'd save lives that mattered to him.
No one moved. After a long while, Zhou Ke'er sent a terse update: she'd stabilized Xiaohu temporarily, but only hospital surgery would save him. She also offered to help others in acute need.
The chat flooded with praise for the doctor. Even Chen and the spoiled rich kid Xu Hao showered her with flattering emojis. Suddenly everyone was moral and grateful; fear makes saints of the selfish.
Zhang watched. Fang Yuqing had kept her distance—perfect. The white-lotus would crawl when her luxury ran low. The first-floor buried, the gate blocked by four meters of snow—no one could expect normal life to resume. Hunger rewires pride.
A week since the world tipped. Seven days felt like seven years. The initial optimism—rescue, short storm—had curdled into grim calculation. News, filtered and small, called it a once-in-a-hundred-thousand-year disaster. Cities frozen, temperatures plunging to impossible lows. Official channels repeated slogans while the streets looked like frozen graves.
Supplies dwindled. People who once joked about stockpiles now counted spoonfuls. Aunt Lin, bereft and terrified, screamed in the group that she represented the Neighborhood Committee and demanded supplies be handed over. Nobody listened.
Then Xie Limei on the twelfth floor posted: "Anyone selling food? My kid and I haven't eaten for two days—I'll buy at any price!"
That message changed the room. Panic makes a market.
At first, offers trickled in at high but barely believable marks. Someone posted: "I have a couple of instant-noodle packs—¥1,000 each if you want."
¥1,000 for a pack of instant noodles. Before the storm that was lunacy. Now it was gold. Zhang Yi, propped on his palm, smiled. "Now this will get interesting," he murmured.
The chat paused, breath held. People thought about money, dignity, and how long pride would last against the ache of hunger.
Then Xu Hao, the show-off rich second-generation who'd been posting smug clips of his quilted throne, flashed in with a single line: "I'll pay ¥2,000 per pack. Sell me everything."
The group exploded.
Instant noodles at ¥2,000—an obscene price that rewired incentives overnight. Stocks that were worthless yesterday were suddenly prime assets. People who had hidden a lone pack now sat on a fortune. Those who'd given away supplies cursed themselves. The economy of desperation had a new currency, and the building's micro-market lurched into life.
Zhang Yi didn't need the noodles. He had thousands of meals secreted away—Australian lobster and Wagyu for breakfast if he wanted. But he loved the theater. Prices reveal character faster than any confession.
As posts flew—offers, counteroffers, bargaining in whispers and shouts—the building rewrote its rules. The weak hawked dignity for rice; the brave hoarded leverage. Someone suggested a fair auction. Others demanded first-come-first-served. A few tried to organize a distribution list, but the noise drowned structure.
Zhang watched the scramble like a man at the opera. The white-lotus and her friend, the green-tea, watched too—calculating. Already, the "backup" candidates moved to trade favors and cash. Zhou Peng, eager to please Fang Yuqing, pinged private messages promising to fetch anything if she asked. Fang's face showed hunger—literal and social.
Outside, the storm wrote its own laws. Inside, the owners turned currency into survival. A ¥2,000 noodle pack was now a test: who would sell, who would gamble, who would trade a story for a bowl of hot broth.
Zhang Yi set his phone down, a small smile playing on his lips. The building was unraveling into market chaos, cruelty and commerce braided together. He went back to practice—two hours of crossbow then bow—then to the kitchen, fetched a cut of meat from the pocket space, and started a slow, indulgent dinner.
Let them trade. Let them beg. Let them learn the price of panic. He'd watch, and pick his moment.