After the food distribution, Lin Caining stirred up trouble again and got a sound beating from Li Chengbin and Jiang Lei. Zhang Yi sent everyone back to their apartments; the night felt thin, like paper between fingers.
Zhou Ke'er walked beside him, voice low with unease. "Something's off. I can feel eyes on us."
He shrugged her hand off—he hated being clutched in public—and kept walking. "A snowmobile's a treasure now. Everyone wants one to survive."
They reached the thirteenth floor when a slit in the stairwell door opened and a bloodshot eye peered out. An old woman—Aunt Lin, who'd been missing for days—suddenly lunged into the light, wild and filthy, a cleaver smeared with dark crust clutched in her fist. "Zhang Yi! Pay for my grandson's life!" she screamed.
Zhang Yi shoved Zhou Ke'er aside without hesitation and rolled down the stairs. Thick clothing and the bulletproof vest softened the impact as he came up in one smooth, brutal motion. He produced a crowbar from his spatial storage and smashed it down onto Aunt Lin's shoulder. Bones cracked; she went to her knees, still gripping the cleaver. He crushed her hand next—three fingers snapped and flew free.
Some neighbors who'd been watching spat in disgust. A few patrolmen pushed into the stairwell, voices raw. "She tried to kill our hope!" one shouted. "She deserves to die for what she's done!"
Zhang Yi waved them off. "I'll handle this," he said flatly.
Aunt Lin writhed and screamed, clutching at the stump where her hand had been. "You let my grandson die! You refused medicine for him!" she raged.
Zhang Yi met her fury with an almost clinical calm. "Chen Zhenghao's men hurt him. I killed Chen Zhenghao. I saved this building." He spoke as if reciting fact, not comfort. Aunt Lin was beyond consolation—grief and fury had closed her ears.