The video call let Fang Yuqing and Lin Caining see Zhang Yi's life in real time. Warmth, light, food—an impossible little paradise twenty meters away from their own frozen misery. For ten days under white skies, nothing had felt more like a cruel joke.
Zhang Yi watched them with a lazy smile. "How are you two? Lost a bit of weight—congrats," he said, casual and clipped.
Both women bristled. They hadn't "lost weight" for vanity—it was hunger. They now rationed one instant noodle packet a day just to stretch supplies.
Lin's eyes locked on Zhang Yi's kitchen. Her throat worked. "Zhang Yi, how do you have so much food? Is that from the shopping trip before?" she asked, voice bright with greed.
Zhang waved the camera toward the shelves. "Oh, this? Junk food. I pull them out when I'm too lazy to cook. Don't touch them much." He was telling the truth — his pocket dimension overflowed — but he delivered it like a taunt. In the owner group, a single noodle pack was selling for ¥2,000. He watched their throats move like animals tasting meat and felt a private pleasure.
"Brother Zhang Yi, you actually stocked up so much?" Fang put on an awed, flirtatious tone. "So amazing. You planned all along, huh?" For the first time she called him "Brother Zhang Yi," sweet and needy.
A corner of his mouth twitched. "Lucky, I guess."
"Your place looks so warm," Fang pressed. "It's not even power-time—why is it so bright? How do you stay warm?"
Zhang gave her exactly what she wanted: a slow pan to the fireplace. Flames roared. "We installed a fireplace. It heats like crazy—can't even sit close." He added the provocation he knew would sting: "You look cold. Are you okay out there?"
He didn't need to ask; he could read the group chat. He knew the building's misery down to the last cracked window. Still, seeing their frozen faces across the screen gave him delightful leverage. Fang and Lin fumed—this was deliberate rubbing, and he had every right.
Fang composed herself into the classic act: small, helpless, warmly needy. "Brother Zhang Yi, you're amazing. Can I come over? I miss you so much." Her lashes fluttered; the old routine—act fragile, make him protect—was rehearsed to perfection.
Zhang felt a faint nausea. For two years he'd worshipped the idea of her; in his last life he'd died because of that worship. That filter had been smashed. Seeing Fang without makeup, wrapped in quilts, she looked ordinary—scuffed and human. He remembered the mob, the betrayal, the way she'd led them. His chest filled with a cold, practical anger.
"Stay home," he said flatly, chin propped on his hand. "Don't go out. It looks bad." He wasn't being coy—he was throwing her own former words back at her. When he'd invited her out before, she'd invented a hundred polite excuses to protect her image. Now he returned the favor: faux virtue as a mirror.
Shock flashed across their faces. They hadn't expected rejection. To Fang, he was a reliable backup—one smile, a promise, and he would serve. Now he refused, and she froze with disbelief and wounded pride. The image of paradise right in their building while they starved gnawed at her.
Fang's composure cracked, but she forced a piteous smile. "Brother Zhang Yi, come on. You used to be so nice. Don't you remember? I just want to see you. I'm not asking for anything else."
Most men would fold at that, but Zhang Yi had no charity left for her. He remembered how she'd always avoided going to his home, how she'd insisted appearances mattered. "You always had excuses when I invited you here—'what will people say?'" he said, voice edged. "We're not in a relationship. We should avoid gossip." He recited her old lines with the calm cruelty of a man who'd learned.
Fang and Lin hadn't expected this reflexive mockery. They fumbled, anger and humiliation flaring together. Fang's eyes reddened; humiliation stabbed deeper than hunger. How dare he throw her words back so easily? She was used to the game: make the man chase, then collect. Now the game had changed.
But humiliation didn't erase need. Fang's voice slipped into pleading, then hard bargaining—petty, theatrical. "If you won't let me come, then at least send something. Just a little food. I'll pay you back after." She tried to make it sound like a neighborly request rather than a demand.
Zhang studied them on the screen. The fireplace flame threw warming light over his room; the feast on the table looked obscene in that glow. He felt the old ache of being wronged and replaced it with a cold plan. "If you want to come over," he said slowly, "make it worth my time."
Their faces rose, hope flaring. "How?" Fang whispered.
"Dress up," he said. "Act like you mean it. Convince me you're worth the risk."
Pride and hunger collided. Fang straightened, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. Lin's smile sharpened into a strategy. The two women began rehearsing lines: softness, flattery, staged humility. Survival had rewritten manners into performance.
Zhang set the phone down and let them practice. Outside, the storm kept writing its cold law. Inside, the white-lotus and her partner were rehearsing how to buy warmth with borrowed grace. He let them prepare—there was a pleasure in watching the theater begin.