Fang Yuqing trembled under two quilts in her rented apartment. The AC was cranked to its highest setting, but the room barely nudged above freezing. Every breath tasted of cold; every limb felt like a block of ice. Then her phone buzzed: Zhang's photo.
She stared. He sat in thin pajamas, a thick steak steaming on his plate, a glass of red wine in hand. They lived in the same building — how could they be in two different worlds? The steak looked like top-tier wagyu; the bottle like something from a Grand Cru list. While she huddled, he feasted. Jealousy flared hot and immediate.
Her fingers flew. "That looks amazing! Send me some steak and wine!" she wrote, thinking the hint obvious. In the old days Zhang would have rushed over. Now, when she watched his reply bubble, her chest tightened.
"Go buy it at the supermarket," he answered, cool and lazy.
Her face fell. This was ridiculous — it was −60 to −70°C outside; stepping into that meant certain frostbite. How could he expect a delicate girl to brave such cold? She snapped, performing offended dignity: "Zhang Yi, you're not a man. You can't even impress me! Hmph!" Pride still lived in her, and she kept up the goddess act rather than beg.
Zhang ignored her and scrolled the neighborhood group for sport. Aunt Lin — Neighborhood Committee auntie, the kind who loved being an authority — was in full public-relations mode: "Stay calm, don't panic. This is a cold snap; it'll pass in two or three days. No need to hoard. Trust the authorities."
A homeowner answered bluntly: "The snow isn't stopping. Let's buy groceries before prices spike." "If we don't stock up, we'll regret it."
Aunt Lin tightened: "Stop stirring panic! Panic-buying hurts everyone. If I catch people hoarding, I'll report them for disturbing public order!"
Zhang smirked. Day one of the Ice Age — stores still stocked, but the cold kept most people away. Those brave enough to shop would fare fine; those persuaded by Aunt Lin's moral scolding were choosing risk. Their fates were being decided by a group chat.
Then Aunt Lin turned her sights on him and tagged his name: "Xiao Zhang, you bought a lot earlier. Don't set a bad example now. Stay home. If I see you buying more, I won't be nice."
Zhang's smile hardened. She'd been nursing a grudge ever since he'd refused her free favors. Now she used her little office to punish him in public. A Neighborhood Committee auntie — what power did she really hold here?
He replied with the bluntness of someone who'd already seen the abyss: "Aunt Lin, if food runs out, will the committee take responsibility? Who will answer then?"
His question hit a nerve. Others began to chime in, their fear giving voice: "If we can't prepare, who's to blame when we starve?" "Can you promise supplies?"
The tide turned. Aunt Lin floundered, flinging reassurances about committees and plans. But the crowd had already smelled weakness. Humiliated, she hissed: "Stop spreading panic, Zhang Yi! That's illegal!"
In her apartment, she ground her teeth and muttered threats about having him quietly detained. The idea was almost comic — petty power plays at the end of the world.
Zhang laughed out loud. The old hag still thought she could wield bureaucracy as punishment. He messaged one last time: "I can't be arrested for telling the truth. It's too cold to go out anyway. Do what you want."
His stores were more than sufficient; he had no need to fight for vegetables or line up at crowded counters. But those who trusted Aunt Lin's soft authority would suffer. He thought of how many faces he'd seen in the mob that killed him last time — opportunists, hypocrites — and felt an old, bitter satisfaction.
He did not celebrate the coming suffering; he only accepted it. Some deserved to be lucky, some didn't, and he intended to be among the lucky. Survival was the calculus now: keep the food sealed, let the storm do its work, and wait.
He closed the chat, checked the pantry list, and hummed as he rotated supplies. Outside the wind screamed; inside his heater purred. Fang's messages faded to silence. Zhang set another timer, folded his hands, and leaned back. The storm would be long, and he had time — and taste — on his side.