Ethan lit the stink bomb and quickly dropped it through the firing slit above the front door.
The moment it hit the ground, a cloud of thick black smoke erupted, carrying with it a stench so foul it was like someone had cracked open a sealed sewer from ten years ago.
Outside, Claire and Natalie immediately gagged.
"Ugh... what the hell is that?! Gag..."
"Ethan, you disgusting asshole! Gag!"
The hallway filled with the putrid gas, and the two women ran, hunched over and vomiting violently as they fled.
Inside, Ethan calmly shut the slit. His apartment was semi-hermetic with a top-grade air filtration system—nothing got in unless he wanted it to.
Watching them retch and stumble down the hallway via the surveillance feed, Ethan burst into hearty laughter. Petty vengeance had never been so satisfying.
Then a message popped up from the neighbors next door:
"Ethan, what the hell did you throw out there? It smells like a dead animal soaked in piss! Could you be a decent human for once?"
It was from the young couple who'd moved in two years ago. Polite elevator nods had been the extent of their relationship.
But now? In this world?
Screw them.
"Don't like it? Come do something about it," Ethan muttered, and blocked them without hesitation.
They started complaining in the building's main group chat. But no one cared. Everyone had bigger problems than the moral conduct of the guy living in Unit 2401.
Ethan grinned. Being completely shameless in the apocalypse was actually kind of liberating.
That afternoon, he was jerked awake by a loud, thunderous bang.
"Bang!"
It echoed through the hallway, cutting through the oppressive silence.
Ethan sat up, eyes narrowing.
"Gunshot," he muttered.
He rushed to the living room and flipped on the monitor.
There it was: on the feed, Tony Chen stood outside a third-floor apartment, one leg braced against a cane, holding a matte black pistol in one hand. A body lay just inside the doorway—two legs visible, motionless.
Tony's thugs were happily hauling away food, candles, and supplies.
Someone had died. And even if the poor bastard wasn't dead yet, he'd be gone soon without food or heat.
Ding.
Ethan's phone buzzed. New message in the group chat.
Tony's voice came through, clear and cocky:
"The city's shut down. No rescue's coming. From now on, I run this building.
Obey, and I'll let you live. Resist, and... well, you saw what happened."
Then came two photos: one of Tony posing with the pistol, the other of the bloody corpse inside the third-floor apartment.
The group chat fell silent.
No one replied. No one dared.
People who had once argued about pets and garbage disposal were now too terrified to speak.
Ethan leaned back on the couch, unimpressed.
"Tony... classic gangster play."
He was right. Tony had only one gun and a handful of guys. He couldn't start a war. So he bluffed—used fear, shock, and a carrot on a stick.
And the sheep? They fell for it. Fear made people rationalize. Maybe he wouldn't come for them. Maybe someone else would resist first.
No one would resist.
But Ethan didn't care.
Let them hide. Let them beg. Tony would die if he ever stepped up to Ethan's door.
Just then, his phone pinged again. Hundreds of new messages.
He'd been added to a new chat group—one without Tony and his cronies.
Curious, Ethan opened it.
Apparently, some of the residents were finally organizing. Trying to push back.
Ethan crossed his arms and smirked.
"Let's see what these sheep can actually do."