Zhang Yi yawned and lounged deeper into the couch. Outside, the block fought the cold; inside, his thermostat smiled back. His safe room held a perfect twenty degrees, endless fuel, and a silence that smelled like privilege. The world could freeze; he'd booked himself a sunset.
No good shows on TV. Live streams were dead—ice had killed the bandwidth and the dancers who once flung themselves into cameras for likes. If any streamer tried to dance in −70°C in a camisole, Zhang would only give a slow, impressed thumbs-up. "Tough person," he'd say, then go back to snacks and sleep.
He opened the pocket dimension. Shelves of consoles winked at him: unopened PS5s, Switches, Xboxes stacked like a tech shrine. Games—Elden Ring, Witcher 3, Sekiro—sat ready. If time was a commodity, he owned the reserve. He hooked the latest PS5 to his hundred-inch screen and dove into Bayonetta 3. Pixels and explosions while the world froze outside—much better than the alternative.
Halfway through a boss fight his phone buzzed. Aunt Lin: tagging the community. Her message was crisp and bossy: "Roads blocked. Bring tools. Everyone clear the snow!"
He scrolled the thread. A few dutiful replies. Mostly silence. The first floor wasn't just buried—snow had piled three meters in places. Human shovels were jokes against that. And this weather? Months, not days.
"Too cold," Zhang typed back. "You'll freeze. Let's wait until it stops."
Some neighbors agreed. "It's −70°C out," someone wrote. "We don't have proper gear." Others muttered about lack of experience—this wasn't the Northeast—and declined to move.
Aunt Lin's tone hardened. "This isn't optional. Neighborhood Committee orders: clear the snow. Young people, step up! Anyone opposing is opposing leadership. We'll deal with troublemakers after this!"
She waved the little flag of authority. People flinched. Neighborhood committees had petty power—permits, lists, favors—and nobody wanted to trade that for hassle. Silence crept in.
Zhang clicked. He had the receipts. She'd tagged the soft targets: students, the transferable workers—never the powerful, never the troublemakers. He let his fingers do the talking.
"Aunt Lin," he wrote, ruthless but steady. "If it's truly for everyone, why didn't you tag those who can really move snow? Why not call the gang boss on 601 or the developer's son in 802? Why only us?"
The thread flickered. Names gathered like vultures: Chen Zhenghao, Xu Hao—everyone knew who cleared land and who bought favors. Aunt Lin had always bullied the weak and bowed to the strong. Zhang just put it in public.
Replies flooded in—small cheers, private relief. "Finally someone said it." "She's always like that—picks on honest people." The tide turned.
Aunt Lin went nuclear. Voice messages, clipped and furious: "Clearing snow is public duty! Some people quibble and show no dedication! If you slander me I'll call the police!" Her last line was thinly veiled threat.
The group split. A few timid souls grabbed shovels to save face. Others glared at their screens. But Zhang? He laughed.
She actually thought the police would enforce petty committee spats in an ice apocalypse. She still believed the rules stood.
He answered with a cold sentence: "If the committee guarantees supplies, you go first. Otherwise, don't scapegoat those who won't risk frostbite."
Her messages shivered into bluster and blame. She threatened detention, whispered about "disciplinary measures." The spectacle was almost comic—an official trying to wield bureaucracy like a club while the city iced over.
Some folks, frightened, obeyed and stepped out with tools. Zhang watched their avatars change from text to action. His smile was small and patient. He wasn't afraid of Aunt Lin's barking. The police had bigger things to do. Social order was fraying. Her little authority was paper against a storm.
He checked the sky. Wind lacquered the windows. Snowpacked streets reflected nothing. Inside, he tapped his list: supplies checked, heaters fueled, safe-room doors secured. He'd planned for this; others had not.
The knowledge of who would freeze first settled into his chest like a slow heat. He pictured the faces that had swung fists at him, the ones who had led the mob the last time—found them in his memory and let a mild satisfaction rise. He wasn't cruel for cruelty's sake; he was precise. He would survive. He would watch.
Later, when Aunt Lin roared about arrests and "disrupting order," Zhang posted a short line that pinned her: "If you abuse your position, I'll post the receipts of your grocery favors. Let's be honest—who gets special treatment?" The group scrolled, then opened up to gossip again. Power shifted.
By nightfall, some neighbors had gone out and returned white-faced, tools in hand, complaining the work was impossible. Some had dug a little; some had failed. The rest stayed home, frightened, shivering, trusting in committee promises that might mean nothing.
Zhang turned his console off and poured another drink. He wasn't going to lead the rescue, but he'd not eat last. He'd sharpen his edges while the world tried to stay upright.
Outside the wind keened. Inside, his safe room hummed like a quiet machine. He leaned back and let the plan tick over in his head—the warehouse, the pocket space runs, the timing when he'd shift bulk while others scrambled. Aunt Lin could wave orders; he had maps.
The rules were changing. He was already a step ahead.