Hunger is a fierce clarifier. Fang Yuqing listened to Lin Caining and found the logic coldly reasonable. Mostly she was hungry. That photo Zhang Yi had sent — steaks, Australian lobster, pastries, fruit — had planted a small riot in her stomach. All the goddess posturing melted for a single hot bite.
She fumbled for her phone and sent a voice message in the softest voice she could muster.
Zhang Yi was on his sofa, TV muted, files of movies and shows downloaded for the long quiet. A playful smile tugged at his mouth when the call came. He opened Fang's message. Her voice trembled, coated in practiced hurt:
"Zhang Yi, you horrible thing. You haven't messaged me in days—so mean!""I said something the other day and regretted it—because I'm shy to take the initiative. You never show you care!"
Green-tea moves. Fang was an expert at performance; in another life, she'd charmed him to his ruin. Her whine still scraped his bones. If he hadn't remembered how cold she'd been inside, he might have forgiven her.
He typed: "I've been feeling under the weather. Not checking WeChat much."
"Are you sick? From the cold? Keep warm!" Fang fretted.
"No, a heat cold," he answered.
Fang blinked. Heat cold? In a city frozen to death? She pictured ice through her plastered window and wondered if he was joking.
He sent a sticker — then a photo.
Not a staged shot. A real one: roaring fireplace, flames bright and lazy, his bare legs in the frame, a coffee table piled with snacks and leftover lamb chops. The lighting made the meat look obscene. He hit send.
Fang's eyes went feral. A fireplace. Heat that actually lasted. The idea of a fire in Tianhai, a southern city that never needed stoves like this, was a miracle. She remembered the chair they'd burned and how ten minutes of flame had felt like salvation. Now Zhang Yi had a proper hearth.
Lin Caining peered over, saw the image, and went slack-mouthed. "Is this Photoshopped? Who lives like this now? This is paradise!"
Fang's mind snapped. Why him? Why did he get comfort and feast while they scraped for crumbs? Her envy turned hot and ugly.
Impulse turned to calculation. She tapped video call.
Lin Caining leaned close. Both would verify in one glance: real or fake.
Zhang Yi accepted the call with a slow, amused grin. He'd been waiting to see how low Fang would crawl. If he couldn't watch her beg, what was the point of revenge?
The screen split.
Zhang Yi lay back, shirt off from a workout, light catching the planes of his chest. The room was bright, fitness gear in the background, a kitchen with boxes of dried scallops, fish maw, abalone, premium instant noodles, tins of caviar and truffle paste tucked on a shelf — ridiculous abundance dressed as casual clutter.
On the other side: two women in quilts, makeup ruined by the cold. They looked exhausted, small and collapsed into their duvets. Hunger had rearranged them.
Zhang Yi's first reaction was a tiny disappointment. The goddess he'd imagined looked ordinary without polish — a six at best. He felt foolish remembering his old obsession. Then he set that aside. The sight of the fireplace and the food was all that mattered.
Fang didn't see his fleeting judgment. Her eyes locked on the room like a starving predator. Lin mouthed, "It's real." Fang swallowed hard — the throat of the goddess went dry.
Zhang let the silence hang like smoke. He watched their faces lean into the screen, watched the calculation slide across their features. His bare legs said what words didn't: this room was warm. The piles on the table said another truth: he had food.
The two women, fragile and furious, made their choices the way hungry animals do. Fang smoothed her hair with trembling fingers. Lin rehearsed a voice that sounded casual and hurt.
"We're so sorry to bother you, Zhang Yi," Fang began, eyes shining. "We… we were wondering if you could possibly spare a little food? Just a bit of steak? We'll pay you back after this is all over."
Zhang smiled a small, private smile. The tone, the pose — all the old moves. He'd seen them on repeat. He savored the moment.
Inside, the fire crackled. Outside, the city sulfured under white. On the screen, Fang and Lin had turned their fear into performance. Theater and barter now wore the same mask.
Zhang Yi's voice was casual. "There's no reason to beg. If you want to come over, I'll let you in—on one condition."
Their heads lifted. Hope flared.
"Make it worth my time," he said. "Wear something pretty. Act like you mean it. Convince me you're worth any risk."
Fang straightened. Pride fought hunger for a second and lost. Lin's eyes glittered. Scripts were written in seconds: smiles, coy lines, a replay of old dances.
The screen held the tableau: a warm room full of food and a pair of women rehearsing to survive. Zhang Yi put his phone down, the picture still live. He watched them practice smiles through a camera and felt the neat, cold satisfaction of a man who'd finally learned where to sit in the world.
Outside, the snow fell. Inside, hunger hired charm as payment. The white lotus prepared to bow.