Zhang Yi treated the flood of messages like background noise—amusing little essays that rarely deserved a reply. Some women sent intimate photos; he glanced at them out of curiosity and found most underwhelming. A few were passable, most were ordinary. They weren't professional performers trained to entice an audience—there was nothing to admire.
Male residents took a different tack. Some pleaded brotherly pleas; elders tried moral blackmail. One man even made a shameless request that Zhang Yi refused to dignify. It bored him.
He propped his phone on a stand, sank back onto the sofa with a glass of wine and a slice of foie gras, and watched the snow press against the window. Half a month had passed and the storm showed no sign of stopping. The city was already buried; in another fortnight the snow would swallow floors one through four. He had no reason to go outside. Others were hunting for hope; he alone held safety.
A dark, idle thought crossed his mind: maybe he'd wait—venture out only when the building had thinned and most people were gone. He knew his warehouse had snowmobiles, intended for an artificial ski resort—machines built to run even through ten meters of drift. With proper cold-clad equipment he could move where others would die.
Scrolling, he paused at Zhou Ke'er's message. It wasn't a plea for pity or an attempt at seduction—just a straight, practical offer: help me with supplies, and I'll provide medical care.
Zhang Yi remembered her now: Zhou Ke'er, twenty-six, a doctor at Tianhai First People's Hospital—tall, lean, and striking in a way that had caught his eye in the elevators more than once. He'd noticed her efficiency before; in the apocalypse, competence was a currency more valuable than charm. A doctor could mean the difference between survival and a slow, ugly death. He also recalled her history—how she had once given away precious food in his previous life. That image lingered like proof that some people were worth keeping close.
He calculated quickly. Medicine and surgical skill would multiply the value of his stockpile; yet the thought of letting anyone inside carried risks. He wanted absolute control.
He tapped a reply. "I'm healthy. I don't need a doctor. I do have medicine and food. If we trade, show me something useful first."
Zhou Ke'er hesitated before answering. Her next message sounded small, ashamed—can a little help now count as a down payment? She was near the end.
Zhang Yi considered. He could give food and a few medicines, but he wanted intelligence in return: if the neighbors planned to move on him, he wanted to know first. An insider would be invaluable in a building full of hungry, freezing people. Beyond that, it would be a test of trust.
So he framed his demand in pragmatic terms: help me stay informed. Protect my threshold with your eyes and ears; in exchange, he would parcel out what she needed. He already knew the kind of bargaining this world forced on people—skills for supplies, loyalty for survival. In the cold arithmetic of the apocalypse, a doctor's knowledge bought her far more than pity ever could.