Chapter 7: Snow Upon Ice (Please Collect, Invest, and Vote)

Zhang Su muttered in frustration: “I should’ve carried up all the stuff you bought last night!”

“Ah…” Zheng Xinyu let out a soft cry, her face twisted with regret: “Yeah, Su-ge, those things… if we’d had them, we could’ve lasted a month—by then, rescue would’ve come!”

Zheng Xinyu had promised her fans a challenge: stay off-stream, never leave her bedroom for a month—in other words, don’t open the door, do everything inside!

She’d ordered plenty of essential supplies for every aspect of daily life, preparing thoroughly for the challenge, buying enough for roughly fifty days.

For this challenge, she’d emptied her entire year’s savings, betting everything to turn a bicycle into a motorcycle—tomorrow was supposed to be the start date, but this sudden catastrophe turned it all to dust.

Zheng Xinyu felt a quiet resentment, but she didn’t complain much; she knew now was no time for pessimism.

Zhang Su raked his fingers through his hair in frustration for a while, then suddenly realized it was useless—he slapped his cheeks and said: “We’ve lost outside supplies. Let’s inventory what’s left.”

As he spoke, he instinctively glanced toward the door, wondering if the gatekeeper, Brother Li, was still around…

“Mm!”

Zheng Xinyu agreed readily.

“First, get water!” Zhang Su stood up abruptly, walking as he spoke: “Even if we can’t drink it, we’ll need water for other things—bring containers!”

But when the two carried buckets and basins into the bathroom to fill them, they froze—when they turned the tap, it spat out a few drops like a man with prostate trouble, then went silent.

The water was cut off.

All their earlier discussion about water was pointless…

Tap water: “Keep chatting. I’m out.”

They stared at each other in silence—this was truly pushing them to the edge of death.

“Charge everything that can be charged!”

Internet and water were gone; electricity and gas were surely next.

“Only phones and power banks can be charged—but no signal, so what’s the point of a phone?”

Zheng Xinyu spoke of this with deep misery; her dependence on the internet far exceeded Zhang Su’s—she lived online, addicted to it, and now, without it, she was listless.

“Think positively—what if the internet comes back? Even if not, phones have other functions—they’ll still be useful!”

Zhang Su spoke as he worked, plugging in every device that could be charged: phone, power bank, electric razor, clock, night light—even the electric toothbrush.

“Oh no!”

Just as he finished, Zheng Xinyu let out a mournful whimper.

“What’s wrong?” Zhang Su asked curiously.

Zheng Xinyu pointed at the bathroom: “No… no water. How do we use the toilet?”

Zhang Su rubbed his forehead: “Is this really worth panicking over? Small business, normal. Big business, use a trash bag. What’s the big deal?”

“That’s so disgusting… isn’t there another way?”

Zheng Xinyu grimaced, imagining never using a flush toilet again—she was starting to panic.

“We can’t go out, so that’s the only way—seal the bag, toss it in the toilet. It’s fine.”

Zhang Su didn’t see it as a problem—there were far worse things ahead…

Zheng Xinyu pouted and scratched her butt, filled with endless melancholy.

“Stop dawdling—draw the curtains, inventory the supplies!”

Zhang Su urged, turning to the most critical task: inventorying supplies.

Swish, swish, swish.

As each curtain was pulled shut, the room plunged into darkness.

The two returned to the living room and turned on the lights. Zheng Xinyu asked, puzzled: “Su-ge, why draw the curtains?… Afraid someone’ll see us?”

She didn’t understand—shouldn’t they let others know survivors were here, to prompt rescue?

Zhang Su nodded: “We’re not the only ones with cut-off internet and water. Every household has fixed supplies in the short term. Never let your guard down. Would you give away your life-saving food to strangers?”

Zheng Xinyu froze. She prided herself on kindness—she often fed stray cats and dogs—but the thought of someone taking her meager rations made her heart tighten—she shook her head violently.

“Good!” Zhang Su praised, then added: “When disasters strike, power outages happen anytime. Remember, Xin-yu—your life comes first. Never be soft-hearted!”

Zhang Su, usually generous and kind, always had a ruthless, decisive side—and which face he showed depended entirely on the situation.

“I get it, Su-ge. I won’t be a pushover.”

On Zheng Xinyu’s unmade-up, weary face, a flicker of resolve appeared—but she didn’t yet know how agonizing the real choice would be when it came.

After sealing the doors and windows, Zhang Su and Zheng Xinyu urgently inventoried their most vital survival supplies: food and drink.

Since most items were piled in Zheng Xinyu’s room, Zhang Su simply moved all other food there.

“I never came over before—I had no idea your room’s worse than mine!”

Zhang Su stood with arms crossed, eyeing Zheng Xinyu’s bedroom with disdain.

Dirty clothes and socks lay in the corner; trash bin scattered with debris; snack crumbs on the desk; the bed worse—cheap plush toys from claw machines littered everywhere.

“Hey! I just haven’t cleaned up yet! Don’t distract me while I’m working!”

Zheng Xinyu’s face flushed crimson.

Zhang Su shook his head with a tut-tut sound—he wasn’t surprised. Many young women’s rooms looked like this; he’d seen messier.

“Let’s see… including drinks and alcohol, we have about seventy-five liters of liquid, twelve packs of instant noodles, way too many snail rice noodles—twenty-two bags, four self-heating hot pots, eight self-heating rice boxes…”

After organizing everything, they concluded: they could last half a month. If they rationed, twenty days was possible—if electricity and gas also cut out, that’s another matter.

Fortunately, all food was ready-to-eat, requiring no lengthy cooking—saving them countless headaches.

Most of these were Zheng Xinyu’s stockpile; Zhang Su had only contributed two five-packs of instant noodles and two boxes of self-heating rice.

“Um…” Zheng Xinyu looked at the stacked water bottles, voice timid: “Su-ge, I don’t think the water will last half a month… do we… not wash at all?”

Yes—Zhang Su hadn’t accounted for hygiene in his planning. Not because he forgot—he’d thought of it, then dismissed it.

Strictly speaking, their water supply was minimal—mostly drinks—so actual water was precious.

As Zheng Xinyu spoke, Zhang Su opened his mouth to raise his voice—then remembered the giant outside the door. He lowered it instantly: “Forget washing now. Just stink!”

Waste won’t flush, no showers—soon they’d both be stinking treasures.

Haven’t written in over half a year—I thought things were more relaxed now, turns out they’re even worse. Yesterday’s chapter got cut. Readers, if you see homophones in the text, don’t be surprised—they might not be typos.

(End of chapter)