Lin Caining counted aloud, voice thin with panic. "We've got five packs of crispy noodles, three bags of instant noodles. Half a bottle of Lao Gan Ma in the kitchen. No steamed buns. No fresh noodles—gone."
Fang Yuqing pressed her temples with both hands. "Crispy noodles? That's nothing. It doesn't fill you up."
Lin's eyes went hard. "Yuqing, this isn't a joke. The snow hasn't stopped. What if it never stops?"
Fang stared out the frost-scabbed window. Snow blurred the world into gray. Ten days. Ten days of nothing but falling white. The second floor outside was buried. The street was silent. No plows. No trucks. No signs anyone would come.
Her hope curdled. She covered her face and sobbed, "Ningning, what do we do? If this keeps up we'll starve."
Lin swallowed and asked, voice brittle, "Does Zhou Peng still have food?"
Fang shook her head. "I begged him. I played friend. He's dry—gave us his last two packets before. He's as thin as a ghost now. Nothing left."
Lin clenched her fists despite the cold. "So who else is there?"
Fang sniffed, then managed a bitter half-smile. "We're still pretty. If we make a move, men will come. Someone will want us."
Lin flushed with a plan. "Exactly—use our looks. A little charm, a little performance, and men will open their doors."
Fang laughed, a dry, scared sound. "Are you stupid? Everyone's guarding their supplies like treasure. Even tempted men won't give up noodles for a night. And with this cold… who wants to gamble with exposure?"
Her laugh died. Behind her composure, pain flashed. Fang had already tried that route. She'd thought beauty could buy safety. She demanded standards no one could meet now: 1.85 meters tall, a steady civil-servant salary, and at least ¥50,000 a month. Ridiculous. An old neighbor had joked, "You're late—half a month sooner and maybe."
Lin bit her lip. She'd planned the same fallback: sell the body if all else failed. But cold killed lust. Practicality ate pride.
Then Lin brightened with memory. "Wait—don't forget you have a simp."
Fang's nose wrinkled. "That stinky Zhang Yi? Unless he crawls and begs, I'm not touching him."
She'd tried to pull Zhang along a few times—nudges, hints, staged closeness. He'd been icy. He'd even taunted her with food photos. That wounded her pride; she'd sworn to make him grovel. Taking the initiative now would ruin her carefully curated goddess image. No way.
Lin rolled her eyes. "You're being stubborn. Look—Zhang Yi stocked up before. He's flush. He always has more than regular people. Go to him. He'll send food without hesitating."
Fang paused. Temptation gleamed.
"He was cold to me," she said, voice small.
Lin smirked. "Exactly. He's insecure now. He thinks he's not worthy. You were aloof before—make him chase. That's his weakness."
Fang's face softened into a decision. "Fine. It's his own fault. He pretended to be better than he is. He deserves to be used."
Lin's smile widened. "See? Backups are made for this. They step in when needed. Give him a smile, a little hope, and he'll hand over everything."
Fang straightened. She smoothed her hair, practiced a casual elegance, and let the cold fear behind her slide down into a performance of calm.
Outside, the city slept under ten days of white. Inside, two women rehearsed their bargains. Survival had turned etiquette into theater — and tonight, one would audition for mercy.