When Zhang Yi finished issuing orders, the crowd murmured. Someone piped up, "You and Zhou Ke'er don't need to stand guard—that's clear. But why not Uncle You? He's our strongest."
Zhang Yi's gaze was flat. "Exactly. He's too valuable. Save him for real battles." The answer was thin, but nobody argued. In practice, he was protecting Uncle You by keeping him out of the disposable ranks. The rest were stationed on the fourth floor—the choke point—to act as early warning and, if necessary, cannon fodder.
Xie Limei protested about her ration. Zhang Yi shrugged, voice cool: "I kept the good stuff back. Uncle You, come get yours later." Her face brightened; Uncle You simply gave her a look that shut her up.
Back in his apartment, Zhang Yi swapped the frying-pan armor for a police bulletproof vest and laid out the spoils from the station: pistols, carbines, and one long, black sniper rifle. He unpacked magazines, checked bolts, and smiled with a hunter's satisfaction. Between his old shooting-club practice and a few manuals he'd downloaded, he picked up the weapon quickly.
"This sniper is perfect for ambushes," he muttered. "No honor, no fair fights—hide, wait, and pick the right target."
Zhou Ke'er padded into the room and curled against him. "Warm me up," she murmured.
He glanced at her, then at the rifles. "Later. Shower first." For Zhang Yi, in this world, firepower came before tenderness—survival demanded it.