Zhang Yi spread his hands. "That's it for today."
He gestured the crowd away. Luan Qiang, who'd been lurking at the edge, suddenly piped up.
"Zhang Yi, if you're going out alone you'll miss things. Why not take a few of us? Your snowmobile can carry three people easy. If we help search, we'll find food faster!"
Faces turned to Zhang Yi, strange and eager. The idea of scavenging the open world was delicious—Uncle You's last haul had shown what could be taken. If they could join, maybe the next load would be theirs.
"We'll help!" a woman blurted, finding courage.
Zhang Yi's eyes narrowed. He laughed coldly. "So now you want my snowmobile too? Fine. We can end this right now. I won't feed any of you anymore."
Luan Qiang scrambled to backtrack, but Zhang Yi didn't give him a chance. He produced his pistol.
Click.
He racked the slide with a practiced motion and flipped off the safety.
The crowd pale as milk, scrambled back, tripping over one another in panic.
"Zhang Yi, don't be rash! We meant nothing—honest!""We'll drop it—ok? We're grateful for the food, really!""Please don't get the wrong idea!"
Zhang Yi gave a derisive snort. "Don't talk about harming group unity again," he said. "Or maybe I've been feeding you too well."
He raised the gun. Bang. Luan Qiang's head exploded; he fell where he stood.
No one expected Zhang Yi to shoot without warning. They'd imagined debates, pressure, maybe threats—never immediate execution. They'd forgotten the basic fact: they were never equals to him.
Words require capital. These people had none.
Screams filled the hallway. Neighbors ran, but the corridor was narrow; they stumbled, fell, piled in a panicked heap.
"You won't learn your place until some of you die." Zhang Yi's eyes were ice. He fired four quick shots—four more bodies hit the floor.
Only then did he lower the pistol, watching them flee like frightened dogs.
Only Uncle You and Xie Limei stayed. Uncle You planted himself loyally at Zhang Yi's side; Xie Limei cowered behind him as usual.
"They just got full from eating too well," Uncle You said, shrugging to justify them. "They forgot who they are."
Zhang Yi thought: if they weren't useful cannon fodder, he'd have killed every one of them. But he gave only a magnanimous shrug aloud. "Fine. I'm merciful. Consider this forgiven."
Armed and reckless now, his preparations nearly complete, Zhang Yi felt he could afford such displays. The cannon fodder would be useful for a little while longer—then dispensable. He knew they would still crawl back for food even after blood had been spilled.
As expected, Building 25's residents were terrified. They slammed doors, bolted locks, and formed a new group chat that excluded Zhang Yi, Zhou Ke'er, Uncle You and Xie Limei. Since the snow fell, dozens of splinter chats had proliferated—mirrors of the building's distrust and petty betrayals.
"What do we do? Zhang Yi's gone mad—he'll kill us all! We don't have guns. How do we fight him?" one message begged.
The chat filled with outrage. "He shot people over a comment!" "How much ammo does he have? Where did he get a sniper rifle?" "I told you he was special forces." "Who cares—he's a selfish bastard. Everything he does has strings attached." "He just uses us as cannon fodder."
They vented—online, they could reclaim a little dignity that didn't exist in the corridor.
After the ranting, the stomachs resumed talking. "Okay, but if Zhang Yi stops feeding us, what do we eat?"
Silence hit the group like a cold hand.
They remembered the days before Zhang Yi's rations: burnt belts, boiled leather, the worst reduced to chewing dog feces for lack of anything else. The worst suffering is the fall from hope back into despair. Zhang Yi had shown them a sliver of light—and they could not go back.
Finally someone conceded, voice small: "Honestly, when you think about it… Zhang Yi's not that bad. The people he killed deserved it."
The chat simmered with uneasy agreement. Hunger and fear. Dependency had a way of overwriting outrage.