Chu Yian carried one of the bowls across the hall and knocked on Lu Qingyuan's door.
No response.
"Thanks for earlier," she called out. "I've left some noodles at your door. Just come get it when you're free."
She turned and headed back into her own apartment, spinning her chopsticks as she settled into her seat.
While eating, she flipped on the TV.
Right as the screen lit up, it was already covering the outbreak.
[Symptoms of the infection in its early stages include fever, cough, vomiting, and red rashes on the skin. In later stages, patients suffer from high fever, seizures, and spasmic convulsions, often secreting yellow mucus from the body. Due to limited hospital capacity, only severe cases are being admitted. Mild cases must isolate at home.]
[The new virus is highly infectious, spreading through respiratory droplets, close contact, and aerosols. Citizens are advised to stay home unless absolutely necessary, wash hands frequently, and keep windows open for ventilation…]
Chu Yian kept slurping noodles while watching.
Then suddenly, she noticed red blotches suddenly appear on the anchor's neck—they just… appeared, out of nowhere.
And then the broadcast abruptly cut to a commercial.
Two minutes later, the news resumed—but now with a new, much younger anchor, who looked uneasy and clearly wasn't used to reading live copy. There was fear in his eyes as he stumbled over the lines.
Day Six of the Game.
The promised supply truck still hadn't shown up. By now, the community WeChat group was in chaos:
[The hospitals aren't accepting deliveries, we can't even get medicine! Are they trying to let the mild cases rot into severe ones?]
[Where are the emergency supplies we were promised? We're out of food. I tried to buy rice and vegetables the other day, but they stopped me at the gate. Are they trying to starve us to death?!]
[The buyer's prices are outrageous! Rice, oil, and salt have doubled!]
[It's insane outside—my friend says supermarkets are being looted. Food's hard to buy, sure, but the real crisis is masks. They're going for 30 yuan each, and even then you can't find one.]
[Does anyone have fever meds? Please—I'll pay. My kid has a high fever, and the hospitals won't take us. We can't bring it down.]
[We want to buy masks too. Please, anyone who has them, we'll pay market price.]
[…]
The group had begun trading supplies among themselves.
Chu Yian kept silent. She didn't offer anything up—drawing attention could be dangerous.
She'd also been watching the neighborhood gates from her window. For a long time, barely any vehicles passed by—and those that did were mostly small trucks with their tops and sides wrapped in cloth.
What were they carrying?
Food? Supplies?
Whatever it was, not a single one entered their community.
Poor Lu Qingyuan probably hadn't eaten again.
Chu Yian turned back toward the rice cooker and added another pack of rice.
Good thing I was well-funded, she thought. She hadn't limited her stockpile to just enough for one person over 30 days.
Today was white rice.
There were still two pounds of beef brisket in the fridge, so she cut off a quarter and made tomato-braised beef.
Once it was ready, she scooped half a bowl of steaming white rice, poured on the rich red stew, and topped it with tender beef and fragrant broth. Add a side of crunchy, spicy pickled mustard greens, and the entire dish smelled divine.
The reason she made a second bowl?
Because this morning, when she opened her door, she saw yesterday's bowl placed neatly at her doorstep.
Not only had Lu Qingyuan eaten every bite—he'd even cleaned the bowl before returning it.
So, Chu Yian carried today's lunch across the hall again and knocked hard.
"Lunch is at your door!"
Just as she returned to her unit, she was startled by the roar of an engine followed by a crash.
A black sedan burst out of the underground garage and smashed through the main gate without stopping, its engine screaming.
Then came two more cars—they all rammed their way out, breaking through the blockade.
Residents in the building were already leaning out their windows to watch, and so was Chu Yian.
Below, chaos reigned—the shattered gates, the fallen guards, and the trail of destruction left behind.
[Holy crap, who the hell was that?!]
[It was people from Buildings 1, 3, and 4. I heard they had infected family members at home—already leaking yellow mucus, basically done for.]
[But the hospitals aren't taking anyone anymore! What's the point of rushing out like that?]
[Still better than sitting at home waiting to die. The news keeps saying it's under control, but things have only gotten worse. What even is this?]
[Guys, I found something—look at this!] (link)
Chu Yian tapped the link. A two-minute video.
It opened with a man in all black—hat, mask, hoodie—standing against a black background, nearly invisible.
His voice was heavily modified through a voice changer, mechanical and chilling.
"Do you really think you'll be saved from this disease?"
"Do you have any idea how much they've kept from you?"
"There is no cure. No successful cases. If you catch it—you die. Most die within four to five days."
"It starts with a fever and a cough, then progresses to yellow mucus seeping from the skin. This isn't a regular flu—it's full-body organ failure. By the time yellow secretion appears, the internal organs have already liquefied."
"The only way to delay death is to reduce body temperature in the early stages. Ibuprofen and acetaminophen can ease symptoms—but that's it. No cure. Once the meds run out or the body gives in, death is inevitable."
"This isn't a regional or national crisis—it's global. Even the mass graves dug for the dead have been filled. This is nature's punishment for humanity's greed and overpopulation."
"Give up. You're all going to die."
His tone grew more and more frenzied—by the end, he was practically screaming curses at the camera.
Then the video showed three images.
The first: infected people lying collapsed inside and outside a hospital. Ambulances came and went. Funeral vans lined up. Doctors looked desensitized. Patients screamed. The abandoned lay still.
A portrait of death and despair.
The second: a dissected corpse, split open.
His organs floated in a pool of yellow mucus.
The third: a pit larger than a football field, filled to the brim with bodies.
Forklifts were pushing in more. The closest corpses were bloated and decaying, covered in flies.
All of it soaked in the dull red glow of sunset.
Hell on Earth.