Zhang Yi moved faster than the blast's aftershocks subsided. He shoved off the quilt in his pajamas, grabbed a pistol from spatial storage—safety already off—and checked the feeds. The living room was intact; Zhou Ke'er huddled in the corner of her room, wrapped in a quilt and trembling. Relief flashed through him. Then he zoomed the camera to the corridor.
A dozen or more figures clustered outside: shovels, rebar, sheets of red plywood—tools and makeshift weapons. They were workers from Building 26, word having spread about his caches. Their crude dynamite had fizzled against the steel door; the charge made noise but left the vault-like panel whole. The attackers cursed and probed for another weakness.
Zhang Yi's temper snapped. If they wanted him dead, he'd make them pay first.
He cracked the small shooting hole and lobbed a Molotov. The flame licked outward; jackets caught. Then he tossed out illicit incendiary canisters—illegal, terrifying devices that burned with an intensity no ordinary water could douse. The hallway turned into a sheet of fire. Down and cotton, wet from the storm, became fuel; screams cut the night as people burned. There is no mercy in being burned alive.
He fired his pistol into the chaos—wasting rounds but buying time. When the smoke cleared, eight lay dead in charred, blackened shapes; five or six staggered away, half afire, and fled into the storm. Zhang Yi didn't pursue; survival meant staying inside. He slotted the air filtration system on to keep the smoke from turning his sanctuary into a grave. The pistol was empty; he noted the depletion with grim practicality. The raid had raised the stakes—he'd need heavier firepower and more ammo.
Returning to the bedroom, he opened Zhou Ke'er's door. She sat curled on the floor, head between her knees. "It's over," he said.
She looked up, trying to steady her voice. "I—thought it was an earthquake," she lied, voice small. Hiding felt safer, she offered by way of excuse.
Zhang Yi snorted. "On the twenty-fourth floor, an earthquake would kill us no matter what." His eyes drifted around her tiny room. What had been plain now hinted at someone who kept order: a pink velvet quilt, yellow sheets, washed black lace on the windowsill. She'd cleaned constantly, kept the place meticulous. He found the thought pleasing. In a world gone mad, a sensible woman was worth a fortune—"it'd take 18.88 million in betrothal gifts to marry someone like her," he mused inwardly—then pushed the notion away and turned back to the window. The night was quiet for now, but the city had learned his cost.