Uncle You escorted Xie Limei and her child back to their apartment. After the door shut, he scolded her gently. "What were you thinking? Asking him to take in a stranger like that?" he said. "He gave medicine—good. But don't push your luck."
Xie Limei clutched the child and pretended to be fragile. "I only did it for the baby—she's my only reason to live. If she dies, I have nothing left." Tears, timed and theatrical, fell down her cheeks. Uncle You's face softened for a moment—he'd seen desperation enough to understand—but he reminded her sternly, "Be grateful. Zhang Yi warned us to stock up. I owe him my life. Don't push him."
Xie Limei murmured, planting doubt: "He won't let us in. He's afraid of everyone—maybe he's hiding something. If he opened his door, we'd know the truth." Uncle You cut her off. "Enough. You're not in a position to lecture. We decide what's right."
The child's soft cries filled the hallway. Xie Limei swallowed her resentment for now, but Zhang Yi's door—and the warmth inside—remained a magnet she could not forget.
That night the snow lay heavy, burying the lower floors. Most of the building slept. Then the entrance drift shifted and shapes moved—trained figures, fit and organized, burrowed up through the deep snow with shovels and steel bars. They struck a lone resident fetching water, killing him with brutal efficiency, then pushed upward toward the twenty‑fourth floor.
They reached Zhang Yi's door with a leader called Old Donkey at their head. He unfolded tools and set something that made even the floor tremble: a charge of dynamite. The men ducked into shadow and waited. A blast detonated, shaking the building to its core.
Inside, Zhang Yi shot awake. The explosion rang in his ears; Zhou Ke'er stirred behind her locked door. The night had become a new kind of danger.