Zhou Peng knocked again, harder this time. "Zhang Yi, Zhang Yi! It's me, Zhou Peng!"
"Open up for a minute — I've got something important."
From inside, Zhang Yi clicked the safety off his gun and leaned toward the door. "Who is it?" he asked.
Hearing Zhang Yi's voice, Zhou Peng signaled Fang Yuqing and Lin Caining to get ready. This was the first time any of them had truly set out to commit violence; their hands trembled, but when they pictured Zhang Yi's warm, stocked home, their faces hardened.
Zhou Peng put on a pleading tone. "Zhang Yi, it's me. We're out of food. For old times' sake, could you spare something?" His hand slid down, fingers brushing the knife hidden under his jacket.
Zhang Yi pressed his back to the door and answered coolly, "We don't have food either. Can't help you."
Behind him, the two women cursed silently. They knew what the kitchen held — boxes of scallops, dried abalone — and they resented Zhang Yi for keeping it to himself. Zhou Peng, desperate, produced a small box of medicine. "I won't take it for free. I'll trade you a box of ibuprofen." In this weather, a packet of medicine was practically worth a meal; the bait was clever.
Inside, Zhang Yi weighed his options. He could open the door and deal with them — gun, crossbow, whatever — but that seemed too straightforward. Death was cheap now; torment was more interesting. He glanced at the trash, snatched up an empty sports-drink bottle, and took care of a more basic need. Then he filled the bottle from the tap with a pale, steaming liquid.
"Two packs of instant noodles?" Zhou Peng bargained. "I'll give you an extra discount. Just open up!"
Zhang Yi smiled and climbed onto a stool. He peered through the peephole, then crouched and tilted the bottle into the door's little opening. Warm liquid splashed over the three gathered outside.
They all yelped. For a second, the warmth pleased them. "Hot water — it's steaming!" someone cried. Then the smell hit.
"This…this is piss!" someone screamed.
The two women gagged and doubled over, retching. Zhou Peng's face went white with fury. He pounded the door. "Zhang Yi! You son of a—! Get out here and I'll kill you!"
His fists thudded against the thick alloy. Laughter came from inside.
"How's it taste?" Zhang Yi called. "Good? Still thirsty?"
Realizing they'd been tricked, the trio scrambled. Zhou Peng stopped pretending to be helpless. He pulled his knife and hacked at the door with everything he had.
Zhang Yi's door was no ordinary barrier; it was integrated alloy, built to withstand a serious assault. Zhou Peng's blade clanged like metal on metal and snapped under the force. The recoil sent the knife spinning; it grazed his temple and left a long, bleeding gash. The cold made skin brittle and pain sharper — he howled.
At the sound, Fang Yuqing and Lin Caining panicked and ran. Zhang Yi watched them retreat through the peephole, gun balanced in his hand, and considered stepping outside to end it all with a shot. He pictured the three of them bleeding in the snow, their lives extinguished or ruined.
Then he thought better of it. There was a nonzero chance that opening the door would cost him his own life. He had turned his place into a fortress; he intended to stay alive in it. "No," he muttered to himself. "I'll outlast them."
He climbed down, dropped the safety back on, and returned to the sofa to resume his game. From the window he could see Zhou Peng staggering back toward his building, dazed and trembling, the taste of humiliation and urine still clinging to his clothes. Fang Yuqing screamed when Zhou Peng collapsed onto her sofa and the drops of urine soaked into the fabric.
Inside, Zhang Yi sipped his drink and smirked. He had decided not to kill them — yet he had made his point. In this cold new world, dignity was a luxury no one could afford.