After Chen Zhenghao shot the resident of 301, a heavy tension settled over the building. The old owner group fell silent—people were too frightened to type—but secretly a new chat sprang up among the residents. Chen Zhenghao noticed and tried to smooth things over with threats wrapped in bland civility: "Times are hard. Nobody wants to kill. I only reacted because the guy in 301 attacked my man first. I'm not a devil—help me out when I need food and I'll keep you safe." A few, exhausted and shaky, let down their guard—Stockholm-syndrome in miniature: when survival is the currency, even soft words from an abuser feel like mercy.
Zhang Yi watched all of this from the sidelines and said nothing. He grew more cautious. His apartment was a fortress—Chen Zhenghao's handful of men and a battered pistol would have little chance against it—but in an apocalypse you never relax. Better to be ready, Zhang Yi thought. If Chen Zhenghao pushed him too far, he'd settle it himself.
The fragile calm didn't last. Nobody wanted to leave their door—yet water had to be gathered; snow had to be chipped away. Someone tried to slip out in secret. It was Liu Tiantian from the seventh floor, a woman who'd earlier egged on the men and insulted them online. She thought she could quietly dig snow for water, avoid trouble—and be safe. She was wrong.
Chen Zhenghao's men caught her in the act. Panic flared in the new chat: "Help! They're breaking down my door—someone stop them!" She pleaded directly with Uncle You, the retired soldier everyone respected: "You can beat them, right?" Uncle You's answer was honest and hollow—he couldn't take on five or six armed thugs alone. "I can't," he said, quietly. "I'm sorry."
Liu Tiantian screamed betrayal. "You're useless men! If I die, you're next!" But the building's memory of her taunts the day before was sharp; neighbors were quick to sneer. Men who'd been insulted replied coldly: "You were so bold yesterday—fight them yourself." Some women sent perfunctory condolences, others warned her sternly: "If they break in they'll hurt you!"
Then the door was kicked open. She screamed as hands dragged her outside into the wind. Zhang Yi saw it all on his surveillance feed and munched on a chocolate bar, unaffected. "It's freezing out there—exposed skin kills," he observed to himself. The spectacle was grim and grotesquely natural: when the world ends, creatures often become obsessed with passing on whatever they can—an ugly, biological finality that fit this new age all too well.