A man with a good weapon wants to test it — it's a childish instinct, the same as pretending a stick is a sword. For Zhang Yi, the weapon was a sniper rifle: a thing ordinary people never touch. Let's see what it can do, he thought.
From the 24th-floor balcony he settled behind the scope. The 8× optic filled his eye; the fleeing figures in the courtyard no longer looked like ants but people, distinct and targetable. He slowed his breathing, found the crosshair, and squeezed.
The first shot punched a man in the back. Zhang Yi blinked. Holy shit — did I just get lucky? Then he fired again. Another body crumpled. It stopped feeling like luck. Whether it was practice, instinct, or some quirk tied to his spatial ability, the bullets obeyed him as if guided.
Within minutes the eight raiders were scattered across the snow, seven of them dead and the last crawling in a line of blood. The volley of distant cracks echoed up the facades; windows lit, faces pressed to glass. Terror turned into a different kind of awe: Zhang Yi has a sniper — he can kill from twenty-four floors. The building's bravado melted into a brittle, new respect.
Uncle You, listening from the stairwell, recognized the sound and guessed the source. "You get that from the police station?" he asked later.
Zhang Yi only smiled. "Just talent," he said, letting the myth grow.
The next morning he woke late and called to Zhou Ke'er: "Make oil-splashed noodles." He checked the house cameras as he spoke — every corner watched; no chance of poisoning here. When she asked quietly, "Was that you shooting last night?" he grinned and let her suspicion stand as confirmation.