Zhang Yi ignited the stink bomb and lobbed it through the peephole above the door. The device hit the floor and erupted in a thick, black cloud; a rancid stench spread down the corridor in an instant.
Fang Yuqing and Lin Caining recoiled as if someone had opened a jar of decade-old filth—both vomited uncontrollably. "Ugh… what is this… ugh…" "Zhang Yi… ugh… you're shameless!"
The smell grew worse, and the two women bolted. Zhang Yi wasn't worried about the odor drifting back in; he'd closed the peephole and his apartment was semi-sealed. During construction he'd installed an air-filtration system that would keep out smells and any toxic air.
Watching their disgraceful retreat on the surveillance feed, Zhang Yi laughed until his sides ached.
Not long after, his next-door neighbor knocked on the door and complained: "Zhang Yi, what did you throw at your door? It stinks! Please be considerate of the neighbors."
The couple lived quietly and had barely exchanged more than a nod with him before. In the apocalypse, Zhang Yi saw no reason to keep up appearances—his priority was survival, not civility. "If you're so concerned, come and take it up with me," he muttered, and blocked them. Words were useless anyway.
That afternoon a single, terrifying crack split the air—"Bang!" The sound rolled through the corridor. Zhang Yi snapped to attention: gunshot. He dashed to the living room and rewound the surveillance.
What the camera showed made his pupils shrink. On the third-floor landing, Chen Zhenghao—his calf wound still evident—stood holding a black pistol. The apartment door across the hall was ajar; inside, a limp body lay on the floor while a couple of Chen's men laughed and carried out bundles of food and candles.
The third-floor resident was either dead or mortally wounded. A single bullet now meant certain death in this snow-locked world.
Every day at ten, residents risked the corridor's marginal warmth to collect snow for water. Chen Zhenghao had timed his move for that window—strike when people were vulnerable. Zhang Yi's phone buzzed: the building's group chat had filled with a voice note from Chen. "The city's sealed by snow—we can only rely on ourselves. I, Chen Zhenghao, take charge of Building 25. From now on, I make the rules. Obey, and you live. Defy, and… heh." The message came with two photos: the pistol and the third-floor resident in a pool of blood.
Silence swallowed the chat. People who had been joking earlier now stared at their screens in stunned fear.
In normal times Chen Zhenghao could never have dominated a building of fifty households and more than a hundred people with one gun and a handful of thugs. But this was no longer normal times. Panic and the instinct for survival amplified his power—threats backed by violence would cow most people.
Zhang Yi lay back on his sofa and considered Chen with a detached appraisal. "Cunning," he mused. "A man who knows how to rule by fear." Chen mixed carrot and stick: promises of shelter and threats of death. It worked—human beings fear dying more than they resent tyranny. Some residents clung to the hope Chen wouldn't reach them for weeks; others simply hid.
Zhang Yi shrugged. It didn't concern him. If Chen dared to approach his door, Chen's fate would be decided on Zhang Yi's terms. Neighbors had chosen to bury their heads in the snow—he had no inclination to be a martyr.
Then his phone vibrated again. He'd been moved into a new group: this one was for residents excluding Chen and his crew. The gunshot had pushed some to band together, seeking safety in numbers. Hundreds of messages poured in—plans, pleas, panic. Zhang Yi watched the flurry without posting. He didn't need to join them; his fortress and its supplies were more than enough for now. He was content to observe.
Outside, the building's balance of power had shifted into a dangerous new phase. Inside, Zhang Yi felt the familiar, cold thrill of being insulated from the chaos he was watching—safe, amused, and disturbingly calm.