Wang Min didn't waste a second. "These videos were filmed recently—I guarantee it. Zhang Yi's place is stocked: food, fuel, everything. He's living like it's paradise."
Lin Caining jumped in: "I helped him carry things at the supermarket. There were trucks coming to his building every day."
A memory sparked through the group chat and panic bloomed. People stared at the footage—pajamas indoors in subzero darkness, warm light spilling from windows, a roaring fire. Some scrolled back through old messages, then typed with shaking fingers.
"How did he survive when we were stuck out here?" one neighbor wrote. "Why didn't he warn us?" another demanded. Accusations hardened into outrage. If someone hoarded while others froze, that person had to answer for it.
"Zhang Yi must share. He has food, medicine, and power—he can't keep it to himself!" the chorus grew louder. Resentment curdled into entitlement: if everyone suffered, it was somehow more fair. Why should one man live in comfort when the rest were starving?
Even the men found a voice. "If we all suffered, fine," someone typed. "But he's living like a king—he must be punished."
Chen Zhenghao saw the posts and his eyes burned. The name Zhang Yi had always stung—Zhang had crippled him once. Seeing the footage, his hatred turned to action. He wouldn't sit idle.
The chat exploded with @mentions and pleas. Neighbors begged and bargained, their dignity traded away for the hope of survival.
"Aunt Wang from the 20th floor here—I lent him two scallions once. We're close. Please, Brother Zhang, don't let us die."
"Aunt Lin speaks as community leader: hand over your supplies and I'll distribute them fairly!"
"Mom Xie: My baby and I are starving—if you save us, I'll call you godfather or whatever you want."
And then the most absurd message of all: Xu Hao, the rich kid, posted, "Let me live with you. I'll give you everything—my family's 150 million is yours."
Zhang Yi scrolled through the avalanche of messages, amused rather than moved. Finally he typed a single dry response: "Am I that close to you? Why should I share?"
That tiny, pointed question sent the chat into a frenzy. Private messages and calls poured in—the tone shifted from moral appeals to bargaining, groveling, and, in some cases, barter of a far more personal kind. People who had once clucked about virtue now offered bodies instead of coin. Money had lost meaning; flesh, they assumed, still had currency.
"Brother Zhang, I'll be useful. I can cook, clean—let me live with you."
"Take me instead—I can help with chores. Please, I have a child."
A stream of messages from young women appeared, each offering what they thought might save them. Some were married; some had partners in the same building. Husbands watched the messages with that peculiar mix of shame and calculation.
Zhang Yi watched, calm and curious. He uncorked a bottle of premium Australian shiraz, opened a tin of foie gras from his dimensional stash, and ate as if presiding over a theatre. Each new plea was a fresh act of the same farce—humanity's last, messy barter.
They begged. They cursed. They tried to shame him into charity. He sipped, enjoying the spectacle.
Outside, the world narrowed to two certainties: desperation and the crude bargains it produced. Inside Zhang Yi's warm little kingdom, the screen glowed, and the pleas kept coming.