Out in the unit, hope had curdled into raw fear. Sun Zhichao's wound festered; old bandages came away stained with yellow discharge. When he exposed the injury, the smell of rot was unmistakable. He howled. Zhou Peng and Ge Jialiang watched their own wounds weep pus and darken.
The tetanus‑tipped bolts had already done their work. In a world without antibiotics, infection spread fast: fever, necrosis, and the slow, animal agony of rot. They cried and cursed Zhang Yi. Fang Yuqing messaged him, pleading, "Brother Zhang, they're losing their minds—help us!"
Zhang Yi replied coldly, teasing the white lotus: "I'd help, but Chen Zhenghao is next door. You could come over… if you're brave." He ignored her further pleas, content to watch panic sharpen into terror.
Chen Zhenghao grew paranoid, arming himself and recruiting desperate single men—ten in total—but the strain of feeding them ate at him. Zhou Ke'er sent a late, desperate note: "They're cannibalizing. I haven't eaten in two days. I'm starving." Zhang Yi, unsurprised, calculated that keeping this surgeon close was worth far more than pity.
He simply messaged back: "Do one thing for me. If you succeed, you live."