"Are you alright?" Zhang Yi asked, feigning concern.
Jiang Lei, surprised Zhang Yi had singled him out, hurried to reply, "Just a scratch. I'm fine."
Zhang Yi's face tightened with mock grief and anger. "Those bastards from the Tianhe Gang dared to hurt one of my best men.""Jiang Lei—you don't have to stand guard tomorrow. Rest."
Then he posted to the building group: "Everyone did well tonight. Tomorrow we reward merit. Anyone who joined the Tianhe Gang raid gets at least two portions of food. Jiang Lei fought bravely and is injured—he earns an extra day off and a super-sized braised pork rice bowl!"
The chat exploded. Eight neighbors had died, but that reality was numbed by a simpler calculus: double rations and the promised braised pork were worth any risk. Many muttered they'd fight harder next time to win the same prize.
The next morning Zhang Yi suited up in full protective gear and climbed out of the fourth-floor window. Snow flecked the world in gray and white; bloodstains marked recent scuffles, but he paid them no mind. He pulled his snowmobile from spatial storage and gunned the engine toward the community gate.
He felt it the instant the machine roared—a pressure of eyes. Dozens of windows turned his way. People who might soon be enemies watched him leave, and the thought sharpened his senses.
His gaze flicked to Building 21: the Mad Wolf Gang's territory. They had been oddly silent about cooperating—too odd. The quiet dogs often bite the hardest. His skin prickled: ambush.
He patted his pistol, checked his spare rifles in spatial storage, and messaged Uncle You and Zhou Ke'er: Lock the doors. Watch the stairwells. He shoved his phone deep into his jacket and accelerated.
At the edge of the community the world detonated. Snow exploded up in front of him; a metal panel slammed into the path, its rope rig snapping it upright like a crude gate. He swerved, but the bike clipped the panel and tipped. Two men who'd been crouched in the drift were thrown into the air as the trap backfired.
Seven or eight silhouettes surged up from hiding, weapons raised and roaring. Zhang Yi drew his pistol, flicked off the safety, and waited.
When they closed to a meter, he squeezed the trigger.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three men went down—headshots, clean and instantaneous. He didn't have time to wonder; a machete arced at him from a meter away. Zhang Yi spun, bringing the muzzle to the attacker's jaw just as the blade fell.
Bang.
Another man collapsed. The remaining attackers froze—four killed in a heartbeat, the others stunned by how fast and how precise the shots were.
Zhang Yi didn't give them a chance to recover. Two more rounds found their marks. The rest turned and fled, boots churning in deep snow.
He bit down on the edge of his anger and throttled the snowmobile into pursuit. In the drift the runners had turned into clumsy, flailing figures. The engine's roar closed the distance. Zhang Yi caught the slowest man and slammed the bike into his back; the rider crumpled into the snow. Zhang Yi did not stop—he drove over the man, the weight and momentum ending the chase.
The scream that followed sliced the morning, then cut out.
The others sped up, panic replacing any thought of bravado. Zhang Yi watched them run, the machine idling like a beast that had tasted blood. The neighborhood had just learned another hard lesson: he was no bluff.