Ethan Cross sat alone in his living room, waiting calmly for the mob to arrive.
His expression was serious. Weapons were neatly laid out in front of him like offerings on a war altar.
A message buzzed on his phone. It was from Uncle Hank, the old security guard downstairs.
"Ethan, you need to run. They're coming, and they've got weapons."
A rare warmth bloomed in Ethan's chest. In a world gone mad, good people were hard to find.
He smiled slightly.
"Don't worry, Uncle Hank. I've got this."
There was a pause on the other end before Hank replied,
"I hope you survive, kid. I'm sorry. This time… I can't help you."
Ethan understood. The old man owed him—after all, Ethan had once tipped him off to start stockpiling early. Thanks to that advice, Hank's shelves were still lined with instant noodles and sausages.
But facing down over a hundred crazed neighbors?
Even Hank had to admit he was powerless.
"You staying out of it already shows me you've got more spine than most. That's all I need," Ethan replied.
He kept the conversation short. He didn't reveal anything about his setup. Trust, in this world, was a liability.
Moments later, Ethan felt the floor tremble.
A low, thunderous rumble echoed up the stairwell.
He muttered to himself,
"They're here."
He knew that sound: the chaotic stomp of over a hundred people climbing their way up, breath ragged, blood boiling.
He lived on the 24th floor.
The elevators were dead. They had to use the stairs.
Good. Let them wear themselves out.
From the multi-angle surveillance screens in front of him, Ethan spotted the couple next door—Unit 2402—creeping out with a kitchen knife and wrench. The wife shrank behind her husband like a cowardly shadow. Both their eyes gleamed with green envy as they stared at Ethan's door.
They weren't alone.
The hallway outside was soon packed, wall to wall, shoulder to shoulder.
Some held umbrellas over their heads—afraid Ethan might dump boiling water again.
Then, someone finally lost it.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Ethan Cross, open the damn door! This is your last chance!"
"Don't make us come in. You'll regret it!"
Watching through the monitor, Ethan didn't see Logan or Tony Chen.
That told him all he needed to know—those two cowards were using the rest as cannon fodder.
Let them take the first arrows. Let them get fried.
Ethan sneered.
He had plenty of electricity to spare.
He flipped the high-voltage switch.
The guy slamming on his door let out a blood-curdling scream as electricity surged through his body, contorting his face into a nightmare mask.
The worst part?
The hallway was packed.
The shock jumped to everyone within reach—dozens of people convulsing in a human domino chain of pain.
"AHHH!!"
"It's electric—back up!"
But it was too late.
Clothes layered against the cold slowed their escape. They were trapped.
Muscles spasmed uncontrollably. Screams echoed through the hallway.
The first guy and seven or eight around him got the worst of it—completely charred, skin blackened and smoking.
No one dared to get close.
Ten seconds later, Ethan cut the power.
Nine bodies dropped like logs, smoke rising from their clothes.
The air filled with the stench of burnt flesh and scorched polyester.
Thud.
Nine people collapsed, unmoving.
Dead or alive? Didn't matter.
Everyone present knew it was over for them.
Wide-eyed neighbors stared at the corpses in terror.
No one expected so many people to die so fast—and so gruesomely.
Their faces were frozen in agony, eyes bulging, jaws locked mid-scream.
Some of the women puked from the sheer horror—though with empty stomachs, all they could bring up was acid.
Panic spread.
People turned to flee—only to find the stairwell blocked.
Tony Chen stood there, armed with a rifle, flanked by his goons.
"Where the hell are you going? Get back," he said coldly.
They were trapped.
No escape.
Tony's plan was clear: force them all to fight. If they died, even better—he could loot their gear guilt-free.
Logan stood at the rear, his wound wrapped hastily, watching the bodies without a flicker of emotion.
He and Tony were on the same page.
Cannon fodder first.
Logan saw the fear rising and decided to take control.
"That bastard Ethan! He's a monster! He just killed our neighbors!"
"Are we really gonna let him get away with this?!"
"Don't be scared! Just use wooden beams! Don't touch the door directly, and we'll be fine!"
"He's got nothing left! The guy's running on fumes!"
"Break down that door and there's food, heat, and heaven waiting on the other side!"
His speech worked.
Desperate eyes turned bloodshot.
One guy came running back with a massive wooden beam, probably yanked from a wardrobe or bed frame.
"Let's go! Smash that door in! Kill Ethan and take his stash!"
They rammed it against the door.
BANG!BANG!BANG!
The whole apartment shook.
Ethan's coffee cup on the table wobbled with every slam.
But Ethan?
He thought it was all a little too dull.
He pulled out a Sennheiser speaker from storage, synced it to his phone, and hit play.
His favorite track: "Work Hard, Play Hard."
As the mob screamed and bashed away at the door, his apartment filled with upbeat electronic music.
That drove them even crazier.
"Screw you, Ethan! Keep laughing! You're dead!"
"We're gonna make you pay for my brother!"
More slamming.
But after dozens of hits, they stopped to look.
The door hadn't budged.
A few white marks. Maybe a faint dent. That's it.
They stared at it, stunned.
"What the hell kind of door is this?!"
"Even a bank vault would've cracked by now…"
One guy in the crowd stepped closer, squinting at the door.
He worked at a bank.
"Holy shit… This IS a bank-grade security vault door."
The crowd gasped.
"So… we can't break through?"
The man shook his head, face pale.
"Forget the beam. This thing could survive a grenade. Unless you've got a master-level safecracker—or industrial explosives—it's not opening."
Ethan smirked behind the scope of his crossbow.
He was already at the firing slit.
Showtime.