Zhang Yi told Zhou Ke'er what he'd seen on the feeds: the raiders came from Building 26. "They rent in groups—ten men to a room—so the cost's low. They're laborers, used to hard work. Stronger and meaner than Chen Zhenghao, who relied on a gun and thugs. These guys actually know how to fight."
Zhou Ke'er absorbed it with a cold clarity. "They're worse than Chen Zhenghao," she said.
He nodded. When she suggested striking back, Zhang Yi shook his head. "Not my territory. Too risky. If I want them handled, I need other people to be the cannon fodder."
He posted to the Building 25 owner group anyway, framing it bluntly: "Workers from Building 26 broke into our unit, tried to steal supplies, and killed Zhang Meng on the 16th floor. That explosion was their dynamite."
The chat flipped. Those who had denounced him yesterday suddenly pleaded for protection today—praise and desperation traded in the same breath. Zhang Yi answered with the same bluntness: "I spent a lot of weapons stopping them. I can barely keep myself safe. You fend for yourselves."
Then a private message arrived from Uncle You. The veteran's tone was tight with anger. "I know those bastards from 26—we drank with them before. They came after you? I won't let that go. They had thirty-plus men; maybe twenty remain after the blast. Their leader is Huang Tianfang. I talked to him once; they've already killed many people."
Uncle You and the Building 26 workers shared roots—both came from rural places—but their paths diverged. The workers had street smarts and pack instincts; Uncle You had military discipline and codes. That difference mattered now: one side fought to survive, the other still believed in some order.
Zhang Yi read the message and felt the shift. He wasn't playing savior—he was buying an ally. Survival, he knew, was best negotiated in alliances of convenience, not in blind heroism.