The begging didn't stop. Neighbors knelt until their heads bled, a pitiful, noisy sea of supplication. Zhang Yi sighed, walked to the window and called down: "Don't act like that. It makes me feel bad." He lifted a steaming bowl of noodles to his lips and slurped loudly—an audible provocation that made the crowd salivate. After half a bowl he set the rest where they could see it but not reach it. "Don't blame me for giving you a choice," he said. "Bring me Chen Zhenghao's head, and I'll feed you properly for a week." He posted the demand to the building group chat for everyone to see.
Neighbors hesitated. Chen Zhenghao had a gun; he'd lost men but still meant business. The thought of turning on him gnawed at them—yet Zhang Yi's simple proclamation made the target obvious: take care of your rival and be fed. Chen Zhenghao, watching from the shadows and counting his losses, felt the room tilt. The gaze of his supposed neighbors had shifted; they looked at him the way predators look at meat. He lifted his gun and barked orders, but even he backed off when the building's people stared back with that new, animal calculation. "We can't break in now—plan for later," he swore and melted into the group.
Roughly thirty to forty people had died that day; the surviving neighbors, trembling and hollow, surrendered the idea of a straightforward raid. Instead they resorted to bargaining and barter. Xu Hao the rich kid offered up his supermodel girlfriend—he'd bought her luxury before, but now he offered her in trade for shelter. The woman, once haughty, agreed all too readily. Zhang Yi brushed them off; he could smell opportunism from a mile away. Fang Yuqing lavished him with praise and promises to visit, but he ignored her.
Meanwhile, official broadcasts claiming the disaster was "improving" amused him more than they angered him. Later he saw neighbors—bundled tight against the cold—sneaking out to drag away charred bodies. When he called them out, they scrambled up excuses: "We were moving bodies!" they stammered. Zhang Yi only smiled. "Were you? Or were you hungry?" The answer sent them fleeing, shamed and afraid.
Outside, the building's moral floor had collapsed into a crude marketplace: flesh, favors, and murder all traded for the same thing—food. Inside, Zhang Yi sat by his fire, ate, and watched the world burn itself down one desperate choice at a time.