Chen Zhenghao's group spent the entire morning crashing themselves against Zhang Yi's apartment—only to slam into solid steel.
Twenty centimeters thick.
To them, it was pure nightmare fuel. No matter how many people they threw at it, no matter how hard they struck, human strength meant nothing before that wall. In the extreme cold, with empty stomachs and frozen limbs, every wasted swing drained what little life they had left. One by one, people collapsed from exhaustion. Their stomachs growled violently—hunger was beginning to win.
Someone's eyes drifted toward a neighbor's exposed arm.
A terrifying thought surfaced.
Isn't that… meat?
The idea made them shiver in horror, yet it refused to disappear. They all knew the truth: if this dragged on, cannibalism wouldn't be a taboo anymore—it would be an option.
Sun Zhichao's wound had already begun to rot. Without antibiotics, the rust-tainted injury meant a slow, certain death. His eyes burned with madness as he screamed,"Zhang Yi! Why are you so cruel?! Is your life really worth more than all of ours?!"
Despair had twisted him beyond recognition.
Suddenly, someone shouted,"Try the balcony! His living room is all glass—floor-to-ceiling windows!"
It was like a lifeline. The crowd surged to the neighboring apartment's balcony. A fifteen-centimeter gap separated it from Zhang Yi's, barely blocked by railings. Ignoring the slicing wind and falling snow, they clambered across like starving beasts.
Inside, Zhang Yi noticed immediately.
He calmly dragged out a lounge chair, poured himself a cup of hot coffee, and sat down to watch.
More than ten people squeezed onto the narrow balcony, their faces pale, eyes wild—desperate and unhinged, like zombies. They hurled themselves at the glass, slamming fists and shoulders into it again and again. Skin split, bones ached, yet none of them felt pain anymore.
Through the glass, they saw paradise.
A roaring fireplace.Zhang Yi in nothing but a thin shirt.Hot coffee on the table.Half-eaten snacks—chips, burgers, slices of pizza.
The sight shattered what little sanity they had left.
They screamed and smashed harder, veins bulging, mouths frothing.
Zhang Yi took a sip of coffee and spoke evenly,"Who told you glass is weaker than steel?"
This balcony hadn't been fitted with metal for a reason. The glass was custom bulletproof—thicker than the windows on a head-of-state's car, reinforced to withstand artillery-level impact.
They rammed it for half an hour.
Not a single crack appeared.
Someone collapsed backward, whispering in disbelief,"Bullet… bulletproof glass?"
That realization crushed them completely. If even artillery couldn't break it, what chance did they have?
A young man suddenly shrieked,"I control my own fate! I'll break it myself!"
Reason collapsed. They threw themselves at the glass like lunatics, again and again.
Inside, Zhang Yi clapped slowly in applause.
Then he casually took out another plate of food—braised pork glistening with sauce, golden candied bananas still steaming—and began to eat, watching their final struggle as if it were nothing more than entertainment.