Li Chengbin's rebuke failed to quiet the crowd. A heavyset man with glasses let out a cold chuckle. "Li Chengbin, you're about the same age as Zhang Yi—are you already calling him 'daddy'?"
"Can't you see he's using us as cannon fodder?"
Those words landed like a sledgehammer.
Faces around him tightened. In the past few days they'd already lost more than a dozen men fighting the Tianhe Gang and the Mad Wolf Gang. The idea that they might be nothing more than expendable pawns sent a chill through everyone.
Li Chengbin jabbed a shovel at the speaker. "Shut your mouth! At least Zhang Yi gives us food."
The fat man—Luan Qiang—snorted, voice bitter. "Alright, he feeds us. I was grateful at first. But look what he's doing now—forcing us into battle, throwing our men into the fire!"
"Why can't we just guard our own building? Why go start wars for him?"
"He goes out every day and brings back a few scraps. We risk our lives. For what?"
"He never eats the good stuff himself—he hoards it and feeds us garbage."
"Come on, there are malls and supermarkets everywhere. Is it really that hard for him to find decent food? Or is he just treating us like idiots?"
Luan Qiang's words found purchase. Whispered complaints turned into murmurs, murmurs swelled into a chorus. People who had swallowed fear for weeks now let anger leak out: they'd been promised survival, but instead had been sent to die.
One woman bowed her head. "Zhang Yi's wrong. We shouldn't die for this."
Emotion spread like infection. Others spoke up. "We're risking our lives every day while he stays safe." "If we had the bike, we could find food ourselves." "He treats us like cannon fodder!"
Li Chengbin's grip slackened; his face tightened. He roared, "Enough! If Zhang Yi hears this, he'll kill every last one of you!"
The crowd froze.
Luan Qiang leaned in. "We've said it now. Are you going to snitch to Zhang Yi and get us killed?"
All eyes turned to Li Chengbin. If he answered wrong, they might silence him on the spot. A cold dread crawled down his spine. "I didn't mean that. We're neighbors."
Luan Qiang smiled. "That's better. We're just blowing off steam, nothing more."
Nervous laughter rippled through the group—habitual bravado masking a new, dangerous resolve. Too many friends had died; it was natural to start asking why.
By the time Zhang Yi and Uncle You returned, carrying two bulging bags, the mood was brittle. Zhang Yi staged his usual performance—comforted the crowd, handed out rewards, publicly gave Li Chengbin and Jiang Lei two braised pork rice bowls each. Everyone else got at least a couple of portions.
But Zhang Yi felt the shift. The murmurs, the sidelong glances—doubt had sprouted in their eyes.
He smiled inwardly. He knew these people better than they knew themselves: bold in complaint, fainthearted in action. Chen Zhenghao had once held them at gunpoint; they'd cowered. Given a gun and a moldy bun, they'd kneel again.
A bunch of worthless scum, he thought. Not worth treating like human beings.
Meanwhile, Uncle You was in high spirits. He handed the designer clothes he'd scavenged to Xie Limei. Her eyes lit up—she'd never owned anything like it. She flung herself against Uncle You's arm and cooed, "You're the best!"
The neighbors watched the new winter coats with envy. Luan Qiang found his courage again. "Zhang Yi, next time you go out, bring clothes for us, too. Down jackets—like the suit you have on."
They all looked at Zhang Yi: he stood comfortably in his professional cold-weather gear while they shivered. Greed flared in their faces.
Zhang Yi arched an eyebrow and laughed softly. How greedy they were. They should be grateful for food when half the complex had already starved.
He played along. "Sure. I'll keep an eye out."
"But the bike's too small—it can't carry both food and clothes. Should you bring clothes instead of food next time?"
The crowd erupted. "No! Food first!"
Zhang Yi nodded slowly. "Then food it is. When I can, I'll find you warm clothes, too."
He smiled brightly—inside, his plans remained his own.