Zhang Yi shoved the heavy generator aside. With a casual flick of his wrist, a pristine medical bed materialized from the void of his sub-space, thudding onto the floor.
Xie Limei stared, her jaw hanging slack. "A... a magic trick?" Her brain, already fried by the cold and fear, couldn't bridge the gap between reality and the physical impossibility she'd just witnessed.
Zhang Yi didn't spare her a glance. He turned to Zhou Ke'er, whose eyes remained sharp and professional. "Save him. Tell me what you need—drugs, equipment, anything. I'll pull it from the inventory."
Zhou Ke'er was already in motion. She was no stranger to the red chaos of the ER. Even with Uncle You're blood staining the floor, she was a statue of clinical focus, rattling off a list of surgical requirements.
Zhang Yi reached into the air, pulling out boxes of antibiotics, scalpels, and vials of anesthetic. "What are his chances?" he asked, his voice a low, jagged rasp.
Zhou Ke'er stripped off her coat, snapping on sterile gloves and a mask. In the harsh glow of the room's lights, she looked less like a neighbor and more like a high priestess of science. As she cut away the old man's blood-soaked rags, her brow knit into a tight, worried line.
"It's bad. The bullets are lodged deep. If they've shredded his vitals, no amount of medicine in the world will bring him back. We're working with a skeleton crew and hope."
Zhang Yi placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Do your best. That's all I ask." He had played every card in his hand. If the old man died now, it was simply the universe balancing the scales.
Xie Limei let out a fresh, piercing wail.
"Shut it!" Zhang Yi barked, the sound like a whip crack. "You distract her again, and I'll give you a reason to scream. Understand?"
The sob died in her throat instantly. She bit her lip, her eyes darting toward the door with a pathetic, feigned frailty. "Maybe... maybe I should go wait in the living room. I'm just in the way here..."
She wasn't looking for a place to grieve. She was looking for the leather sofa, the warmth of the kitchen, and the rows of canned goods she'd glimpsed on the way in. She wanted to play "lady of the manor" while her "husband" bled out.
A cold, razor-thin smile touched Zhang Yi's lips. "This surgery is for your 'husband,' isn't it? Then you're staying. Every second of it."
"But I don't know anything about medicine!" she protested, her voice rising in panic.
"You can hold a tray and wipe the sweat off the doctor's brow," Zhang Yi said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Besides, I'm sure your presence is a great comfort to him. You're staying. That's an order."
Before she could manufacture another excuse, Zhang Yi stepped out and pulled the heavy steel door shut. The heavy clunk of the deadbolt echoed through the apartment. He wasn't about to let a parasite like her wander his sanctuary while he was gone.
He walked into the living room and saw the cup Xie Limei had used. With a look of profound loathing, he swiped it off the counter and into the trash. He went to the fridge, cracked a cold bottle of milk, and downed it in one go, feeling the calcium coat his throat.
Then, he began the ritual.
One by one, he laid his weapons on the coffee table. The black matte finish of the assault rifle, the oily sheen of the pistols, the long, predatory barrel of his sniper rifle. He checked every magazine, counted his grenades, and adjusted his tactical vest. When the last click of a loaded chamber signaled readiness, he stepped out into the frozen night.
The courtyard was a gallery of the macabre. The bodies had begun to stiffen in the sub-zero air, looking like red "plum blossoms" scattered across a field of white. Surprisingly, the snowmobile and the piles of supplies remained untouched. The survivors were still too paralyzed by the afternoon's massacre to crawl out for the loot.
Zhang Yi descended the stairs with a heavy, rhythmic tread. He wasn't angry anymore; he was focused. They had fired the first shot. It was only polite to fire the last.
He pulled out his phone and sent a single message to the estate's group chat: "Everyone. 4th floor. Now."
He didn't wait for replies. He stood on the landing of the 4th floor, rifle slung across his chest, a shadow among shadows.
Slowly, the remaining residents of Building 25 began to trickle in. They moved like ghosts, their eyes wide with a terror that bordered on worship. Only twenty of them were left.
"Brother Zhang... we had nothing to do with it! We're on your side!" "We're loyal! We swear!"
Zhang Yi raised a hand. The silence that followed was absolute. The killing intent rolling off him was a physical weight, the byproduct of the hundred souls he'd sent into the dark just hours before.
"The traitors ambushed us. Uncle You is fighting for his life because of them," Zhang Yi said, his voice echoing in the stairwell. "Tonight, we don't wait. Tonight, we finish this."
The neighbors turned pale. "Counterattack? Just us? They have the high ground... they have walls..."
"I'll take the building," Zhang Yi said, his eyes fixed on the dark silhouette of Building 21—the Mad Wolf Gang's den. "You lot just keep the perimeter. If anyone tries to jump for it, you kill them. No one leaves that building alive."
Confused but relieved they weren't being asked to charge the front door, they nodded fervently.
Zhang Yi leveled his gaze at the target. "Move out. Surround Building 21."