Tony Chen and the rest of the mob spent the entire morning pounding at Ethan Cross's walls.
They'd torn up the floor, hammered the ceiling, chiseled every visible surface—and met nothing but cold, unyielding steel.
Twenty centimeters of solid metal.
It was no longer just an obstacle. It was a nightmare.
They had no power tools. No explosives. Just frozen limbs and the last shreds of their strength.
Under subzero temperatures and with no food to replenish energy, all they could do was collapse—one by one.
"Grrrrrrr..."
Stomachs growled in unison.
People clutched at their bellies, their lips cracked and dry, their eyes sunken.
Some turned to the side—and through the holes in torn coats, they saw pale flesh.
White. Soft. Vulnerable.
Meat.
That thought slipped into their minds.
Just meat.
The moment it emerged, they shuddered. Terrified. Ashamed.
But once a door like that cracks open—you can't shut it again.
Deep inside, they knew it: if things got worse, someone was going to die… and someone else was going to eat.
"There's really no way in... is there?"
Logan groaned. His arm, swollen and turning purple, throbbed with pain.
The wound was inflamed. Infected. Rust still clung to the skin.
No antibiotics. No antiseptic. No way to clean it.
He was rotting alive.
"Goddamn you, Ethan! Why are you doing this to us?"
"How is your life more valuable than a hundred of ours? Just give up already, dammit!"
Logan screamed at the sky, his voice cracking from rage and hopelessness.
Then, from the crowd, a neighbor suddenly spoke up:
"You know… maybe try the balcony."
"When they remodeled, Ethan installed a massive floor-to-ceiling window. Almost all glass. Maybe it's weaker than the rest."
The others hadn't seen Ethan's apartment from that angle.
But his next-door neighbor had.
Ethan's floor had a small concrete platform—a balcony he'd once used for plants, maybe to air out bedding.
The moment the suggestion landed, a spark lit in the mob's dead eyes.
"A window! Right! If there's a window, it means there's a weakness!"
"We just need to get through it, and it's over!"
Like feral dogs smelling blood, they charged into Ethan's neighbor's apartment.
Between the two balconies was a 15 cm gap and a steel safety grille.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Outside the corridor was death by freezing.
Outside on that balcony was salvation.
Wind howled. Snow sliced like knives.
But Tony Chen didn't care. If they got in, they'd have warmth, food—everything.
They swarmed onto the balcony, squeezing into the small space like maniacs.
Ethan watched it all unfold.
As their bloodshot eyes met through the glass for a split second, he smiled.
Then dragged his white lounge chair up to the window, sat down, and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee.
The balcony quickly filled with a dozen people.
Pale as corpses. Twisted, frozen expressions.
Ethan thought to himself:
"If zombies really existed… they'd look just like this."
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The glass trembled as they smashed it with axes, wrenches, crowbars.
Blood splattered—some missed and hit themselves—but no one cared.
Pain was a luxury they couldn't afford.
And now, with just a sheet of glass between them and heaven, the hunger hit harder.
Inside, the fire roared.
Ethan lounged in a T-shirt.
Coffee steamed beside him.
Snacks and trash littered the floor.
Chips. Burgers. Cola. Pizza. Roast chicken. Duck. Even spicy pulled noodles.
The sight pushed the mob over the edge.
It had only been two weeks without food—but seeing those familiar foods again...
It was like finding their long-lost father.
"RAHHH!!!"
"AHHHHH!!!"
They screamed. No longer human. Just beasts.
Ethan sipped his coffee and whispered:
"Who said glass was weaker than metal?"
This wall cost him a fortune.
He had refused the security firm's suggestion to use steel for aesthetics.
Instead, he custom-ordered an entire wall of bulletproof glass.
The kind used in presidential limousines.
Twice as thick.
Back then, the security manager had said:
"This doesn't just stop bullets. It stops RPGs."
And now, as the crowd kept pounding...
Nothing happened.
No cracks. No splinters. Not even a scratch.
"What the hell is this glass?!"
"Is it bulletproof?"
A bespectacled man whispered the words—barely audible, as if it came from hell.
Bulletproof? This? Try cannonproof.
"No... I don't believe it!"
A young man screamed,
"My fate is mine alone! I'm breaking it—I swear I am!"
He roared, eyes bloodshot, swinging his crowbar like a madman.
If I can break it... everything behind it is mine!
Desperation stripped away logic.
Ethan applauded from inside.
Bravo.
Then, bored, he walked into his pantry.
A man's gotta eat.
He pulled out a braised pork knuckle, caramelized bananas, and some premium cocoa dark chocolate.
Let the animals howl. He'd dine like a king.