Zhang Yi was bored. The chat was a theater; he decided to be the playwright.
Aunt Lin barked orders again. Zhang rolled his eyes and typed: "Aunt Lin, if this is really for everyone, why didn't you tag the people who can actually move snow? Where's Chen Zhenghao of 601? Where's Xu Hao of 802?"
He named them bluntly. No flourish. No mercy.
Chen Zhenghao—Brother Hao—was the sort of name that made people look down the hall. Everyone knew him: broad shoulders, broader reputation, the man who'd once led a gang with an axe. Xu Hao was the entitled rich kid who'd once pulled a knife. They weren't anonymous. They were faces in his memory of the night he'd died the first time.
He had reasons for the shove. Most of the block had taken part in that mob, in one way or another. Many had walked away with spoils. Zhang had no use for courtesy anymore. He peeled facades off like old paint.
Aunt Lin's face went white. He'd put her in a trap: back down and lose face, or escalate and show she didn't control the powerful. She panicked and did the only thing left—tagged the big boys.
"Folks, clear the snow. If you can help, bring tools," she wrote, hands trembling. "We all pitch in."
Chen's reply came as a volley: a string of question marks, then a vulgar voice clip that left no mistaking his mood. "Clear snow? Clear your head! It's still snowing! You stupid old bitch—tag me again and I'll kill you, believe it or not." The voice was liquid menace.
The chat exploded with laughter—nervous, gleeful. The neighborhood loved a spectacle; this was better than TV. Aunt Lin, who'd fancied herself a small-town czar, realized the awkward truth: the gang boss didn't respect committee titles.
Then Xu Hao chimed in. A voice note, lazy and smirking. "Clear snow? What am I, a servant? I'm busy." He followed with a photo—a quilted bed, a woman curled beside him—and a caption: "Stuck here with my mistress, total coincidence. Asking me to clear snow? Hilarious."
Aunt Lin had no answers. She tried to scold Xu—"You're an owner; it's your duty!"—and he spat back entitlement: "Do I pay property fees for show? I keep this place afloat, you little bureaucrats. If you want snow cleared, hire someone. I'm done."
The chat iced over. People read the messages and felt cold in their gut. Power was power. Money and muscle did not respond to committee orders.
Aunt Lin went private. Her voice messages were quick, high, pleading. "Zhang Yi, why are you opposing me? What do you want? This is for everyone—don't block it." She tried to shame him into compliance.
Zhang thumbed the screen. He could have let it die. Instead he typed with a small, clinical cruelty: "Don't play dumb. You bully the weak and bow to the strong. Why tag people who can't push back? Be honest—are you scared of 601 and 802?"
The thread lit up. A chorus started: "She always picks on the little guys." "Finally someone said it." People nudged toward truth because truth did not cost them much when the storm was the enemy.
Aunt Lin lost color. She pressed the nuclear button: "If you spread lies, I'll call the police!" Her tone squeaked like a mouse trying to sound like thunder.
Zhang laughed out loud at that. Police would have bigger priorities than committee drama while the city iced over. Her little authority was paper and stamps in a world that was literally freezing.
She got indignant, then frightened. She sent a private message: "Zhang Yi, I won't stand for this. Stop provoking me. If you don't cooperate, I'll make things difficult for you later."
Zhang's reply was blunt and small: "Stop pretending. You use your position to take advantage of people. Bark again and I'll make sure everyone sees what you did."
Aunt Lin blocked him. The tiny victory tasted like vinegar. She muttered threats into the darkness of her apartment and went back out into the group to marshal the obedient—few, honest souls who feared not being assigned work when the world thawed again.
Then Zhang's WeChat vibrated. Chen Zhenghao's number. Not a tag, but a direct call. The gang boss had read his name and wanted to settle the score.
Zhang paused, thumb hovering. Part of him wanted to cower—stay inside, keep the door bolted, never answer a threatening ring. But another part, the part that remembered being beaten and betrayed, tightened its jaw. He wanted the trouble. Let the fool step forward; he'd show Zhang exactly how fragile these thrones could be.
He answered the call.
"Who is this?" Chen's voice was ice and gravel. "You named me in the chat, kid. You play with fire?"
Zhang smiled in the dark. "You must be Brother Hao. Heard you're handy with an axe. What's up? Come down and dig."
Silence, then a low laugh. "You want to die, little man? I'll enjoy breaking you."
That was the sound he'd wanted: menace, overconfidence. Chen thought he'd intimidate Zhang into shutting up. Instead Zhang had pulled the rope taut and watched the man dance.
"Tell you what," Zhang said, calm and cold. "You want a scene? Try it. But understand—if you come at my door, I've arranged a few things that won't be pleasant. You can step outside and freeze like everyone else, or you can test me. Your choice."
Chen swore, hung up, and called again. The calls came fast, angry, stupid—exactly what Zhang hoped for. He let them ring. Let Brother Hao have his fury. Let the rich kid think himself untouchable. Zhang had time. He had a map. He had a pocket-space and a plan.
The storm tightened outside. Inside, Zhang Yi set his phone to silent and sat with the ringing that he could ignore whenever he pleased. The block had exposed its bones. Men like Chen felt threatened, and that made them predictable.
He logged the call, cataloged the threat, and began to assemble contingencies in his head—routes, alarms, what to pull from the pocket dimension first if men showed up. He grinned a little, not for pleasure, but because the world was finally moving in the way he wanted: clear lines, known enemies, and a battlefield he could control.
The phone buzzed again. He didn't answer. He had already answered the only question that mattered: this was coming. He would stand his ground.